A Slice of Heaven
by Saruno Hadaki
Summary: (AU. FrUK.) Love? That was the last thing on Arthur's mind when he returned to Earth almost 200 years since his death for lacking something important in his life. Upon meeting the flirtatious Francis Bonnefoy and accepting his offer to stay in his flat (not for long-term, obviously...), Arthur's eyes are opened to the myriad of things that he had been missing in his past life.
1. Death

Disclaimer: This story is not intended to evoke any religious beliefs, follow any distinct religion, or be religiously suggestive/offensive in any way. The characters and plot are fictional and belong to creator Hidekaz Himaruya.

London, England 1839

Arthur huffed, blowing several strands of hair out of his face as he trudged through the accumulating snow surrounding him. Carrying a stack of papers and journals in his arms, Arthur Kirkland was walking down the sidewalk from his daily job to his house across the city.

All he wanted to do was get out of the cold.

And this was just the beginning of it! Winter hadn't come yet; the piles of snow were only going to get bigger from here and that meant that carriage-less Arthur was definitely going to complain more about the weather as the days passed on (the majority of the complaints would, of course, come from having to march through the cold).

He had tried to convince himself that the weather was ( _really_ ) not that bad, and maybe in a way he was right (because it could have been _hailing_ ,) but the snow outside his window wasn't very reassuring. _At all_. And it just kept coming...

Arthur's face twisted into disgust as he passed said pile of ungodly snow to reach the doorway of his small, two-story house. He loved the cute place, even though it didn't look nearly as cute on the inside. It was small and dwarfed by the other houses, but was actually one of the youngest and came with every amenity available, although Arthur supposed that decorating the place in dusty furniture and books didn't make it very appealing.

The Brit unlocked the door and slid into the suddenly warmer atmosphere, kicking the door closed behind him as he rushed to place his heavy journals on the currently empty coffee table in the middle of the living room.

Arthur almost stumbled over a pile of books on the floor as he paced the room to the fireplace in the corner, eager to get a fire going. He rubbed his hands together then reached for a match from the top of the fireplace. He lit it against the mantle and then tossed the match into the kindling, sighing with relief as he placed his hands in front of the growing fire.

Once he could move his fingers again, Arthur relaxed slightly. His hands, being as important as they were to his job as a journalist, had to be maintained and kept safe from freezing. After all, Arthur certainly didn't want to lose his job over something silly like accidentally losing his fingers to frostbite.

He rose from his crouched spot by the fire, gently pushing some books out of the way, to walk to the kitchen and brew himself some tea. He had to prepare properly for the long evening ahead of sitting on the couch, reading journal after journal as he tried to decipher what it would take to write an amazing enough story for a promotion at the local newspaper. The competition for the promotion was becoming harsh, but Arthur Kirkland practically lived off competition, non-fretting in the eye of rivals and silly, cock-sure journalists who thought that they were better suited for the job when they weren't.

Arthur filled a container with water, placing it in the hearth to heat. He lit the match and waited, doling out some of the time by going back to the living room to read his journals. Once it was done boiling, he prepared to pour the hot water into the teapot to brew when he heard a distinctive knocking on the door and froze in the middle of his small, cold kitchen.

 _What do you want?_ Arthur wanted to grumble instinctively, without even seeing a face.

Figuring the water was hot enough, Arthur extinguished the flame from the hearth in the kitchen, remembering the last time he had forgotten to do so, before exiting the room to open the door (even though he _really_ didn't want to,) to see who was knocking.

Skillfully passing by piles of books on his way to the door, Arthur finally reached it, hesitantly curling his hands away from the doorknob—mostly because he didn't want to see who was knocking—but turning it nonetheless to meet the person on the other side.

The olive eyes and chocolate-haired man that stood on Arthur's doorstep was immediately recognizable to him as his co-worker—in fact, one of those that was challenging Arthur for his promotion at the newspaper.

With a characteristic smile, the coworker waved at Arthur saying, "Hello Arthur!" In a charming voice.

Arthur shifted closer to the door, hand curling around the doorknob. This man was not his friend- far from it.

Arthur preferred to write about crimes and political issues, whereas the other was a devout propaganda writer who liked to publish little things such as spouts between the sexes and small 'celebrities' in London.

He was an obnoxiously excitable man who voiced his opinions a little too loudly and even worse did not care what others thought of said opinions. It was common to read complaints from this author in the newspaper—he even dared to write absurd things about Queen Victoria. It was all rubbish to Arthur, who didn't care about anything that the bloke had to say.

"What do you want?' Arthur asked, the pent up words finally leaving his mouth, all the irritation still intact.

Of course, to Arthur's infortune, his Spanish colleague just continued talking. "Come quickly! I want to show you something," and then, before Arthur could argue, added, "it's good story material."

Now _that_ caught Arthur's attention and the other probably knew it, too. In all honesty, he was naturally curious about this story- especially if it was a good one- and that was enough to get a slight eyebrow raise out of Arthur, although not much else.

Even if it _was_ a story, was it worth Arthur's time? Moreover, his dislike of snow and even larger dislike of his colleague were obstacles that he was not sure he wanted to bother to overcome.

Those were the majority of the reasons behind Arthur's refusal from budging as he spoke. "I would love to go," he replied falsely, "but I have some reading to catch up on."

He could see from the other's unfaltering expression that he wasn't bothered by Arthur's obvious aversion to his offer.

Much to Arthur's disbelief, he actually leaned forward, eyes shimmering persistently. "It won't take that long to show you, I promise. I haven't even told anyone else yet, because I know that you really want that promotion."

The words rang resolutely in his head, urging him to accept.

 _Forget about the Spaniard, all that matters is the story,_ Arthur thought as his eyes rested on the man, eyebrows drawn down on his eyes.

"Won't take that long, eh?" He asked, which was responded to with a nod. "Well, I suppose I could go... for half an hour, at least. But no longer," Arthur snapped, half-turned back to the warmth of his house as he spoke the words, turning again to accentuate the threat.

He made a vague gesture with his hand to wait as he left the door cracked to retrieve a thicker coat, some gloves, writing materials...

Arthur was in the kitchen, glancing sadly at his useless teapot, with the water that was now going to be left to cool as he stuffed a notepad and pencil into his wool coat, buttoning it and, to top it all off, slinging a scarf around his neck to complete the outfit.

His colleague was in the living room waiting, sitting on his couch with an innocent look on his face, which really threw Arthur off. With a wave, Arthur banished him from his couch and back into the cold, where he followed shortly after, to lock his door and drop the key back into his pocket.

The two walked in silence for the majority of the trip, Arthur in his own little world, contemplating all the things he could be doing rather than following this idiot around, whilst his companion was probably silently mocking Arthur for stupidly deciding to follow him through the snow.

"It's by the Thames River," Arthur companion suddenly interjected as they walked, Arthur's expression befuddled but mostly confused.

"What are you bloody talking about?" He retorted, casting the man a sideways glance.

"The story!" He exclaimed back, then nodding towards the path ahead. "We'd better look from the Waterloo Bridge first," he suggested.

Arthur's face had chosen to fix itself into the same grim expression until they got there, squeezing the end of his pencil meditatively, pondering once again if this had _really_ been worth his time.

Horse-drawn carriages clattered alongside, some of the maned beasts whinnying as they trotted past the men and down the Waterloo Bridge. Arthur easily followed the other onto the bridge, casting wary glances at the thick brown water of the Thames.

The horizon of the river was as sickly brown as the rest of it, making Arthur grimace unabashedly. Did people actually _fish_ in this monstrosity of a river?

'What happened here, exactly, that compelled you to bring me?" Arthur confronted as they continued to walk down the bridge, hand trailing against the railing of the bridge.

The other stopped so abruptly that Arthur almost clattered right into his back. He extended a hand and pointed to the horizon, where a single boat was currently floating along the river.

Arthur couldn't feel compelled to care about the tiny shit on the horizon and if this was what the other was so focused on, it was a bloody waste of time.

"And what does this have to do with _anything?_ " Arthur seethed, scowling reproachfully at this man for wasting his time.

If he just hadn't listened to this idiot, then maybe he wouldn't have waste a perfect cup of tea and some time!

"Don't you see the name on that vessel?" He inquired, Arthur's interest already too miniscule to listen completely to what he was saying.

"I don't see it and I really don't care-" Arthur began impatiently, but the other journalist was already trying to decipher the name for himself.

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms, Arthur stayed put. That was, until those olive eyes were turned back onto him, imploring him to come see! And because Arthur had already wasted so much time walking through this shitty weather just to come here he figured he might as well just get this over with so he could go back home.

Placing his hands on the railing, Arthur grumpily glared at the boat, the starboard facing them but no words facing back.

Frustrated, Arthur prepared to leave when he felt a hand tug at the collar of his shirt, sparking a fuse. He whipped around, mouth agape, as the other tugged him back over the railing until he was leaning uncomfortably over it.

"You better let go!" Arthur exclaimed, turning around to club the man, who dodged his hit.

He was crouching on the ground and grabbed Arthur by the ankles—eliciting a gruff shout from him—and then pushed Arthur up and over the railing of the Waterloo Bridge.

Only seconds lasted between Arthur and the water of the Thames.

During those short moments when Arthur was falling, his mind raced a mile a minute. He asked himself why he was no longer standing and why he had been stupid enough to follow the idiot to the Bridge. He scorned the Spaniard for tossing him over the railing.

However, Arthur ultimately felt a suffocating desperation to stay alive, to _live_ , even in the face of his own watery reflection.

The Thames swallowed Arthur like a depthless pit of fear.

Ever since Arthur was a child, he had been intimidated by water. The stuff felt strange to touch and although it was translucent, he didn't like to sink his legs into it. Water had a strange gravity to it, too- there was no way to describe the strange weight Arthur's body underwent when he entered water of any kind, let alone how these qualities would change when in a river.

Arthur plunged into the water, the current pulling at his clothing.

Kicking and screaming, water seeping into Arthur's lungs, the Brit panicked, flailing his limbs in an attempt to stay afloat. The water made everything more difficult: moving, breathing, shouting.

It was so cold that Arthur became almost paralyzed, his vision blurring as he began to lose oxygen—not that there was much to look at anyways. All he could see by the time he began to lose consciousness were foggy swirls of brown and grey.

In reality, Arthur didn't struggle for very long.

The Thames was pulling him down quickly, water sloshing over Arthur's head until there was no air left to breathe and his lungs burned every time he cried out for oxygen. Arthur's body couldn't keep up with his mind's alarmed pleads or his heart's pounding thuds against his ribcage.

Arthur's arms and legs slackened and with another roll of murky water, his eyes lost sight of the blurry sky forever.

* * *

Arthur awoke to a faint buzzing noise, a sound he was sure he had heard before but was not sure from where.

As the noise grew louder and more pronounced, something inexplicable happened.

The resonance growing in intensity, a harsh light followed, somehow swarming through Arthur was a wonderful feeling of warmth, breathing life back into him.

He felt overpowered by emotions, remembering everything that had happened to bring him here, to what appeared to be a strange void of darkness. The strange sound was gone and it was very, oddly quiet now.

Disoriented, Arthur raised his hands to his face to inspect them and maybe a little sillier, to see if they were still there. Oddly, his fingertips were trembling, proving that he was (at least) seeing _something_.

It wasn't until Arthur reached over to curl his fingers together that he realized he couldn't feel them at all. He didn't feel the muscles moving, even when he bent the fingers back, knowing he should be feeling pain.

 _What the bloody-_

Arthur cut off his thoughts, scowling (at least he thought so) when he realized that he was here because he had _died_. And not very pleasantly, either. Needless to say, he felt a bit like a dolt for allowing that _idiot_ to persuade him out of his house in his first place.

And now? Well, Arthur _could_ put the blame on his fellow journalist for his current situation, but that wasn't going to help him get out of here!

Angrily, Arthur clutched his hands together, his thoughts simmering in his mind. He wanted to feel his pain, maybe toss something in his fury for this stupid mistake.

But there wasn't anything to toss or break or _feel_ and that made things tougher. Arthur frustratedly ran a hand through his hair and then across his face, but he couldn't feel the roughness of his fingers through his hair or his hands on his face, naturally.

Arthur drew his fingers back to see that they were stained with tears, the salty liquid glistening on his index finger.

This was ridiculous; he couldn't feel the tears, so how could he even know, at this point, who made them? Maybe it hadn't been him after all.

Arthur cast a glance over his body, catching sight of a slim, naked frame suspended in darkness, the limbs pale and foreign to him. His hands fell past his bent legs as he attempted to stady himself, making him nauseous.

 _Of course,_ Arthur thought, _of course I'm floating. It's not like I don't already have problems feeling or anything._

Arthur's head was suddenly assaulted with a strange, heavy mass that caused him to topple backwards, body splayed against the darkness. His heart beat uncontrollably in his ribcage, an uneven and frightened rhythm.

Casting his thoughts aside, Arthur closed his eyes as the force took him over.

* * *

 **A/N: The first chapter is updated! I give thanks to Mint-Chocolate-Leaves for Beta Reading and InTheMix for looking over an older version of this chapter. Want to keep up with new chapters? Follow! Also, if you have any comments you'd like to make, please don't be shy! I don't bite.**


	2. The Recorder

When Arthur opened his eyes again, he could feel hot tears stinging his face. It was difficult to describe the overpowering relief that he felt when he raised his hand to sweep the tears away, feeling the brush of his fingertips against his cheeks and the heat of the salty water rolling onto his fingers.

However, Arthur was hesitant to open his eyes at all in fear that he might see the same darkness as he had before. Instead, he found himself confronted with something entirely different—and just as surreal.

A tall pedestal carved from thick, sturdy wood stood before Arthur, and perched on the top of that pedestal sat a humongous golden book, probably bound with the strongest material imaginable, consisting of millions of pages and being bigger than half the length of one person.

A tall man - taller than Arthur, at least - stood behind the aforementioned tome, head bowed and ink-filled quill curving across the large paper splayed before him. The stranger's honey-colored hair glittered in the light provided by a beautiful halo floating above his head, and large, birdlike wings spread out behind his form, the white feathers beautifully soft-looking.

For a minute, Arthur was sure his eyes were deceiving him.

A second glance, however, and he was sure that there was no denying it.

A hand flew to his chest once he realized that, oh literal God, this was a real angel! A true, full-blooded angel, with wings spanning at least eight feet in length and the garb of an angel being somewhat shown on his figure... and the halo and wings were definitely there to consolidate Arthur's belief that this man was a real angel.

After glancing at the man standing behind the pedestal, Arthur cast a glance over himself as well, wondering if maybe he resembled the angel standing across from himself.

Arthur's tweed suit remained crumpled against his chest, his favorite tie inflicted with appalling water damage. The green color of the tie was almost twice as dark as it had initially been. He felt mangy, like a homeless person he might have encountered in his human life.

In an effort to make himself look more approachable (and less frightening), Arthur attempted to flatten the clothing to its former luxuriousness, with little success.

He tried to cast glances behind his shoulder to see if he had a halo and wings as well, in part as an attempt to relive himself, to indicate that (maybe) he was lucky enough to become an angel.

It was with mixed feelings of pride and chagrin that Arthur acknowledged that they were there, but only within the edges of his view, the halo following his eyes and his wings hugging his back resolutely.

By the time Arthur had finished gawking at this new place and its inhabitants, he fell silent at yet another realization—the angel was still in front of him and he had failed to greet him at all. _Ah, bloody H-_

However, he didn't have to worry long; the stranger standing before him almost immediately raised his face, almost as though he could feel that Arthur was beginning to distress.

Arthur immediately stiffened under the man's gaze. It certainly wasn't because he was frightened of all things, but those eyes were just... amazing.

The blue disks reflected tropical oceans and deep, endless skies... there was a separate world, so to speak, in those eyes, a mysterious, embracing world of vibrant color and adventure. Water didn't seem so frightening in them, Arthur thought with surprise.

Arthur could have stared at them all day and still missed something. Maybe that was why he began to inspect them closer in vain hope of seeing a shard of the other's blue-eyed world when suddenly the other titled his head.

"Hello," he greeted, shifting to rest an arm against the pedestal holding the large golden book.

The edges of his eyes wrinkled in untold amusement, as though there was a joke being told and he was enjoying it quietly. His eyes glanced at Arthur from the tip of his head down to his worn loafers, somehow inspecting his utter soul with just a glance.

A small hiatus of silence slowly stretched out between them, until finally: "...You've been through a lot," the man observed with a small, self-affirmative nod.

Then the silence returned for a moment longer; Arthur didn't know how to retort to that and thus the two stood, simply watching each other with prying eyes, for several seconds. Yes, Arthur had been through a lot, but who hadn't?

"Yes," He then softly conceded, albeit a little annoyed, confirming the other's observation after the short lull of silence had receded.

"You're Arthur Kirkland, yes?" The tall angel asked, and reached back over to dip his pen into the ink perched beside his book, writing Arthur's name into it. His hand swept across the paper, long strokes gradually filling the page with words. As he wrote, Arthur timidly nodded his head, still undecided on what to say to the stranger other than what the other asked of him—idle conversation didn't feel like a good idea.

After several observations, Arthur's eyes returned to the angel who continued to write, a question beginning to surface in his mind. "Would I be correct in guessing that I'm dead?" He contemplated, eyes swiping across the surrounding white landscape with a wary eye, unable to believe even that which he was currently seeing with his own eyes.

"That would be affirmative," the angel responded with a thin smile, but without a glance in Arthur's direction.

He was not shocked; he knew that he had died, and yet it all seemed so unreal to him. He had had no yearnings to die, yet the blow had hit him, and here he was, even if he didn't want to be.

Maybe he could make the best of it; forget all the silly stuff he had done before he came here and just let it go. There wasn't much to let go of anyways, he thought haplessly.

"You don't look very disturbed by this whole 'dying' thing. Why is that?" the man asked sweetly, so innocently curious that Arthur was slightly surprised by the question; certainly he already knew!

But those angelic, prying eyes were asking for an answer.

"I think it is because everyone is expected to die. I already knew I was going to one day; I just didn't know when," Arthur thoughtfully replied.

The angel put his quill down and looked at Arthur and he gazed back unyieldingly.

"That's surprisingly blunt of you," He commented, "because many people refuse to admit that they have died, or have trouble accepting it. Have you fully accepted that you're dead?" He then asked, his voice approaching the question tentatively.

"No." Arthur replied without much forethought. He already knew that he was not content with his death. He had only been twenty-three, after all, and he had intended to do things with that time!

The man was smiling at him, Arthur realized, and began to figure that the other had probably met countless like him before, so then why did he smile? How wasn't he impatient by now?

"Well, in that case you might be lucky." The angel mused wistfully, lifting his quill to tap it against his book. "You might not know this, but usually people don't die without at least accomplishing something that made their life valuable. When they come here, they've already done something to make their life worth the existence. But you? I can't say that your life has been exactly exemplary."

Immediately Arthur's eyebrows shot up in prepared rejection, but the other just kept going, relentless, even when he tried to get a word in. "What are you—"

He scratched the crown of his head, features slightly twisted, before interrupted. "...You can't stay here. You haven't proven that you've lived up to anything, especially since you've missed something very important in life," the angel informed directly.

Arthur could already feel the heat rising to his face. He suddenly felt a small inferiority in his self, one that would continue to bother him and not go away, he suspected, if he didn't do something to stop it. In addition, he felt offended. It didn't matter to him what it was that had been missing in his life as far as himself went, and it was no worry of the other's what accomplishments he had or hadn't made while he was still alive.

"I don't recall missing anything," Arthur bluffed, stiffly denying the accusation with a pointed glare.

He was expecting an argument, assuming that the other knew that he was lying and was not going to let him get away with it. Instead, the other man simply grinned jovially at Arthur and his bitter statement. "Well, nonetheless, you're missing something, even now. You're not complete like this," he stated, making a gesture that Arthur sneered at.

"Wouldn't you rather be something better than mediocre?" He questioned.

 _Mediocre?!_

Well. Arthur certainly didn't think so. He had lived a _fine_ life, thank you, and it really hadn't been that mediocre. His brothers had been especially annoying and he had been quite a wonderful writer when he was living; there was nothing mediocre about either of those things.

However, the thoughts that silently swam in the back of his head - the ones that made Arthur feel little, as though he had not done nearly enough to compensate for his existence – ruined the façade.

He was dead, so there wasn't even anything he could do if he wanted to improve the welfare of his existence, which was why he glared at the angel with such reproach. He couldn't do anything to change now and even then how would he ever begin to improve?

The angel seemed to understand the hurt behind Arthur's expression and slowly began to lower his hand, although his smile didn't falter.

"People in your situation aren't always allowed to stay here, Arthur. In your case, I would suggest you return to Earth after some time has passed. It would be silly of us to toss you back down to Earth after you just died after all," the angel informed, smiling gently at Arthur. He couldn't imagine that the angel was very happy about being the one to deliver this information.

"I suppose you wouldn't happen to be able to tell me what had been missing, or maybe how I'm supposed to live on Earth once I return, would you?" Arthur questioned sarcastically, arms crossed. He was not about to act ungrateful for this chance to finish the rest of life on Earth, but he wasn't exactly eager to manage his life in a new era either, let alone independently find what had been missing that led to this trouble in the first place.

The angel simply shrugged his shoulders in response to his question. "I'm sure you'll figure that stuff out once you return. Fate will choose when. Until Fate decides it's time for you to go, you will stay here and learn some better habits, since I and probably lot of other people wouldn't be flattered to talk to such a sour head. I'd treat this like a learning experience, mind you," He cautioned, all the while wearing a kind expression Arthur was unlikely to reciprocate.

So he wasn't staying here forever. He could go back to Earth eventually, which was both a relieving and unsettling thought. What was he supposed to learn here, he wondered? It seemed that the other had faith that he would figure that out, but Arthur didn't feel the same faith.

Moreover, how would Arthur know when he had found what he was missing? The change might be so subtle that he wouldn't even be able to realize it.

Stupidly trying to change and figure out what was wrong didn't sound ideal.

He attempted to show his grievances to the other through a furrowing of his eyebrows, but the other angel barely cast a glance up at him; instead, he merely continued to write in his beautifully engraved book until he was finished, allowing Arthur to spend that time thinking and tugging at his water-ruined clothing in discomfort.

Thankfully, the angel's writing utensil was eventually stored in its ink jar and he raised his head once again to Arthur, his face more businesslike than it had been prior to his time spent writing.

"Have I answered all your questions thus far? If you have any more you might want me to refer to, please tell me now before we get started," The blonde angel commented, finally turning his attention back onto Arthur, where it belonged.

Arthur had a plethora of other questions he still wanted to be answered, but they were menial compared to the encompassing curiosity the other had just given him with his strange words.

"What do you mean 'get started'?" He immediately asked the other man, slightly apprehensive and wary.

As Arthur might have expected at this point, the other responded with a genial smile and a sweeping gesture towards his book. "I have documented your life in my precious book, so the next step is to get you dressed appropriately." He then gestured to Arthur's clothing as well, without even cringing, which made him feel as though he didn't look as terrible as he felt.

Indeed, Arthur would not want to wear the agitating rough fabric of his old suit for his whole time here in Heaven. He would want something more... suitable... to wear in Heaven—something like what the man across him was wearing, no matter how little or how much it covered.

"It might be a good idea to warn you now that your new attire might take some getting used to. Yours will be quite revealing, in all honesty."

Ah, and this was the part where Arthur's thoughts came to bite him in the arse.

He drew his eyebrows down in slight disgust as he watched the other step aside from his pedestal to gesture to his long robes, which reached the floor in length.

The ink-splattered sleeves that probably could have covered all fingers on each hand were rolled up to the man's elbows, exposing sun-tanned skin and arms sculpted with muscles. Warm light pooled down from above, the source the man's perfectly rounded halo, which left most of the other man's body glowing in a soft light; it wonderfully accentuated the browns of the man's hair and his worldly blue eyes that were watching Arthur for any sign of a reaction. His gigantic wings spread out behind his back, pearly against the nonexistent light.

Arthur stared candidly at the wonderfully handsome man from head to toe; there was something flattering about seeing him this way, when he wasn't busy writing or keeping his head down behind the podium.

The attire suited the godly author surprisingly well, although the man was bulky and the cloth seemed too smooth for his suggested strength. Would the man not fit better as a warrior of sorts, instead of standing behind this tome, writing constantly without even a blessed break? Arthur did like the written word, but he suspected he did not as strongly as this man did, as he had chosen it as his purpose in the afterworld.

The flapping of the other's wings called Arthur's focus as his mind struggled to understand why he had even associated clothing to books and now his face was befuddled upon acknowledging that this man had long robes, and yet his wouldn't be as long?

Nonetheless, Arthur's eyes lifted back to the other's blue eyes where he could almost distinguish the hues of that man's eyes dancing inside his pupils, silently enjoying Arthur's untold thoughts. He raised a hand and wordlessly gestured for Arthur to follow as he turned, walking until he disappeared into the fading nothingness awaiting ahead.

* * *

 **AN: Thanks to the few current followers I've seemed to amass! I promise, you'll be grateful you stuck around. I plan on making this story (at least) ten chapters.**

 **On another note, I also thank Mint-Chocolate-Leaves for adding grammatical touches to this chapter!**

 **Thanks for reading~!**


	3. Francis

Arthur was asked to adorn a velvet-soft tunic held up by a strap around his waist and one strip of fabric around his shoulder; to Arthur's surprise, it covered only down to his knees in length. He was secretly surprised that it was so short, because for angels that didn't seem appropriate.

Unsurprisingly, it took Arthur some time to become accustomed to his new life in Heaven, although several things helped him in this endeavor, one being the first angel Arthur's eyes had ever fallen on.

Arthur eventually learned that this angel worked recording the lives of people and their souls as they passed into Heaven. He could see the stories of others just by looking at them and, after doing so, would record their stories in his never-ending golden book.

He was a young, jovial man in the afterlife and he was Arthur's (should he admit it) first friend.

Arthur did not see him often, however. He visited the Brit periodically, usually just for short talks, which Arthur never really minded much, interpreting them more as a way of wasting time than anything else.

What struck Arthur the most was how often he managed to recite little lessons to Arthur, when it wasn't as if he was already feeling like a child in the short tunic and barely useable wings.

Arthur enjoyed the company and although the other brought the majority of curiosity into Arthur's life, Arthur never bothered to ask the man what his past life had been like, or what he had acted like before he learned the lessons he knew now—primarily because he wasn't in the mood for longer lectures than those he had already been given.

Constantly the Recorder (the name Arthur had secretly begun calling him, even if it sounded a tad bit too mysterious for him,) came and went, and Arthur was left to wait until he came back to tell him anything. His family was there, too, but sometimes they got just a wee bit... well... _annoying_.

As Arthur spent a longer amount of time in Heaven he got used to it. Somehow he became accustomed to the Recorder's sporadic appearances and his brothers' even more frequent pestering.

Moreover, as this time passed, one thing had completely slipped his mind: returning to Earth.

He had everything he needed in Heaven for as long as an eternity. Moreover, he had a peppering of friends and growing family to focus on.

Somehow, in Heaven, they seemed even more energetic than they had been on Earth—and twice as bothersome; and yet, even that became a comfort to Arthur, and he gradually became used to it.

Arthur was strangely content with this new existence and it had definitely eased off all those ages of stiffly leaning over desks and lunging huge stacks of papers around. He was comfortable here, feeling the pull of a smile even when there wasn't reason for one.

Of course, it had come at the cost of his family's picking, and the jokes they made about how grumpy he had been ("Where's Arthur? This can't be him because he's smiling," was a common statement).

For the most part Arthur remained patient and courteous, but there were moments when his capped temper blew off.

His angelic friend explained to him that even he had changed drastically since his human life but insisted that no change like the one Arthur was undergoing could be considered bad and Arthur knew that his family felt the same way.

PAGE BREAK

Arthur Kirkland was not told that he was going to be sent back to Earth until he was completely void of the memory of his pact with the ink-stained, long robed angel those long centuries ago.

Arthur had almost forgotten that he had to go back at all when the Recorder requested his presence, and then reminded him that there was still an essence missing from his life that could not be attained in Heaven.

Arthur was once again standing behind that golden book as the other relayed this information to him. Suddenly it all came rushing back to Arthur: his death in the Thames, his time spent in the surreal darkness, and now Heaven, soon not-to-be-Heaven, all the events that inevitably led him to this one, in front of the pedestal that spoke of his fate in the ink-splattered words written by his gracious, no-named companion.

The honey-haired angel began to write as he spoke continuously with Arthur.

"...so it's been decided that your accounts of your time here will remain intact when you cross back into the Earthly realm. Keep in mind that if you tell someone of the Afterworld, it isn't likely that they will believe you, so don't speak of us unless you have trust that it is for a good cause. Be wary, too; the Earth has changed drastically since you've last walked on it."

Arthur eyed the other in disbelief. He wasn't joking around, was he? He was going to have to return to that- that-

Arthur had missed Earth, he had, but once he left, he wasn't coming back for a very, very long time.

He was going to miss Allister's prodding and harassment and his other brothers' teasing and he was- not that he'd admit it -going to miss the Recorder as well.

Once again, he was going to miss it, and yet he could feel the pent up excitement and curiosities that came with leaving.

"What's going to happen to these?" Arthur inquired, and then gestured from his tunic to the sandals on his feet.

Honestly, Arthur didn't want to part with the comforting clothing, even though he definitely didn't intend to be interpreted as a lunatic. He obviously wasn't, after all!

The angel stopped long enough to watch as Arthur acted out the gesture, and then replied, saying, "Unfortunately, we can't provide you with any clothing other than what you're currently wearing. Moreover, you can't keep your wings and halo once you cross over. I can't imagine that seeing an angel on Earth would go over smoothly," he informed with a slight, sympathetic smile.

Arthur wanted to scoff. He wouldn't be an angel anymore once he left, if he didn't have his wings or halo.

Of course Arthur understood the other's cautions, but some of the plan still sounded so _absurd_. He didn't need the Recorder's sympathy for something that he had been _told_ about!

Huffing, Arthur turned his head away, casting a glance off to the clouds near his shoulder.

Pausing, Arthur came to notice that the clouds were slightly higher than they usually were. _How odd_ he thought idly before his eyes fell to his feet, which were actually sinking _below_ the clouds.

Startled, Arthur looked down again, confirming his suspicions. So he was actually falling from Heaven? Did they have to be so bloody literal?!

Hurriedly, Arthur scrambled to fight the inevitable, to maybe- somehow-

"Sir," Arthur called to the other, expecting him to glance up to see him sinking.

Instead, he kept writing (which was quite _rude_ and not at all how one should treat a friend that was going to fall through the floor soon).

He didn't even know the man's name, making this tougher.

"Please tell me what your name is," Arthur stated the second time, voice rougher, lower lip curled beneath his teeth.

Why hadn't Arthur asked earlier, one might wonder? After all, Arthur knew from the beginning that he was going to stay in Heaven for who-knows-how-long (the actual time he spent there being close to an eternity, however plausible that was).

At the beginning, Arthur had taken the other's words to heart and being the misanthrope he was had not struggled to push people away, isolating himself because he knew he was not here to stay.

His plan hadn't turned out well in the end, however, since he had gradually established friendships with people anyways, and the only thing Arthur's attempts at isolation had achieved was a habit of keeping to himself.

The Recorder's lack of a name was a result of Arthur's isolation, which had lessened as time went on but had never tapered down enough to make Arthur feel as though it wouldn't be intrusive to ask.

Arthur was still waiting for an answer when it occurred to him that the other was not going to give him an answer, and was ignoring him on purpose.

Eliciting a loud huff, Arthur attempted to call his attention back.

"Please," he begged, wings twitching anxiously as his feet began to pass through, "I'd like to know your name before I go," He informed, giving the man one last chance to tell him before he started to get a bit hostile.

Indifferent, the other put his pen down and then reached over to flip a page from his large book, waiting until Arthur's time to go so he could resume his routine.

Black ink stood out against the shimmering light reflecting off the page, and from the clutter of words there, one stood out in stark contrast against the others.

The words were inked with immaculate care, the large black text swirling around the small letters like one large word. _Alfred F. Jones_ was the name written on that page in large, curved handwriting, and the name that Arthur wouldn't forget.

It was then that Alfred spoke, and Arthur's eyes shot up to his face, searching for an explanation.

"I couldn't tell you earlier for a number of reasons, but the most important the fact that you never asked me."

There was a forgiving grin on his lips when he spoke, but Arthur's perplexed expression wasn't eased by his explanation, since that didn't justify his reason validly enough for Arthur.

Maybe Alfred was aware of the things Arthur had tried to keep hidden, like his ostracization from his friends, family, and acquaintances; maybe he knew that Arthur hadn't asked his name because it would only be that more painful to leave knowing it.

"Well, I appreciate getting to meet you, and I want to, well, thank you... Alfred," Arthur replied with a smile, unable to assertively thank Alfred for any one thing he had done for him.

"You really don't need to thank me," the other replied, just as vaguely.

It was as Arthur was beginning to open his mouth for another response, probably another thanks, when he felt his feet give in and he fell.

Feeling as though his heart was going to exit through his throat, Arthur fell quickly, his whole being dropping from the substantial height that Heaven existed upon.

Alfred's face flashed in front of Arthur as he fell, looking nearly expressionless, his eyes bursting with the emotions that his mouth and voice could not convey. Arthur understood just as well as Alfred the inability to speak, the plummet sapping his lungs of breath.

Some moments just cannot be prepared for until they happen, and this was one of those moments.

Arthur felt a weightlessness taking hold of him as he fell. He initially panicked and instinctively tried flapping his wings to resist the tough winds; unfortunately, gravity shoved them back down every time he tried.

Arthur's eyes watering, he barely managed to catch sight of the world below him, although the size of it was growing rapidly.

He could see dark patches of green and the navy color of the ocean, but what surprised him the most were the gray lines carved into the ground below, which spiraled into large, dark masses of lights bigger and brighter than Arthur had ever seen in his life.

Fearful of his well-being once he saw how quickly he was falling, Arthur curled himself into a ball, anticipating the impact once he made contact with the Earth.

His body preceded to tear itself through the atmosphere until it made contact with the Earth, the impact so extremely painful and loud that the crash of branches against his skin left him reeling and his ears ringing.

Once Arthur attempted to open his eyes, only black splotches appeared before him. His whole body was numb, and although he heard no sounds, he was sure his hearing was- hopefully- still intact.

The ex-angel was surprised to smell the refreshing scent of oak, burning his nostrils as his senses strengthened.

For a short minute, Arthur was too hesitant to open his eyes, wondering what he might see. But then he opened them anyways, figuring since he was alive he might as well see where he was.

Arthur had to lower his head to see that sturdy branches had poked through his flimsy tunic, and that his sandals dangled from his feet, the straps haphazardly caught in nearby branches.

Moreover, Arthur's thick-boned wings hung just above his head, wrestling with the strong tree branches to snap back to their natural position.

The sight of his own condition unnerved him, as did the pain from the tree branches that tempted Arthur to turn his head away, although the branches restricted his movement.

The site where Arthur had landed was very beautiful, lush with grass and shrouded in tall trees, and sprinkled with small flower gardens. Arthur discovered that he, too, was trapped in a tall oak tree, similar to the surrounding ones.

The foliage was nice, but not when you were stuck in it and it was alien to him—yet familiar.

Arthur could almost reach back into his mind and touch those far away moments when he was sitting on the grass or watching the leaves change color when he was alive.

The brush of the fresh breeze on his face and the rough bark against his back were two things that he had almost completely forgotten he could feel, and he wanted to embrace this old, familiar planet he had left so many years ago, which almost brought tears to his eyes.

 _Oh, how I've missed you_.

Aside from the loving reunion of his old home, however, there was also an even more profound reason that compelled Arthur to cry: his wings felt as though they were being torn from his body.

Arthur began to wiggle himself out of the tree when he felt a feather brush against his cheek, and thus began the deterioration of the wings he had grown so used to, the wings he almost couldn't imagine being without.

They began to molt profusely, the feathers disappearing before they even touched the ground. All of the feathers were gone in a matter of seconds; soon the magical force that had burned out their existence started working on the frame of the wings themselves, bringing excruciating pain to Arthur's body.

Arthur writhed strongly as the burning possessed him to panic, what felt like fire rolling down the length of his back.

Grunting and thrashing around like a possessed man, Arthur paid no heed to the creaking of the tree beneath his weight.

There was a crack and a snap in one quick succession, then the tree gave way, and Arthur's thin body crashed to the ground.

Head burning painfully, Arthur's eyes closed involuntarily, his mind struggling to stay conscious.

He kept his eyes closed and breathed shallowly, taking in fresh, crisp-yet-cool air each time.

When he had the strength, Arthur rolled himself onto his bleeding back and stared at the sky poking out from behind the oak tree, a good piece of his tunic being held captive in its branches.

His breath evened out as the stinging on his back gradually ceased. Unfortunately, his wings nor his halo were coming back, but at least he had the majority of his tunic and...

Arthur wiggled his toes to realize that his sandals were gone, and when he opened his eyes again to search for them, violet eyes returned his gaze.

* * *

 _A little time earlier..._

Francis Bonnefoy had come to the park across from his apartment in an attempt to watch the last of the trees as they parted with their beautiful fall-colored leaves, to bask in the lovely changing of the seasons and the wonderful autumn weather.

Many of the tree's leaves were already gone, however, and the tree Francis decided to sit nearby was especially naked of the foliage he had come to see.

It was never Francis's intentions to ignore the attractive world around him, but he _had_ brought his leather-bound journal with him, and at that moment, he deemed it no better time to write in it. He wrote in his native French, writing whatever interested him, this time more about his family and his home, nostalgic things to pull him from the stupor that every day seemed to bring.

It was as Francis was completing the first sentence of his story (definitely a story, and not a diary) that he heard a loud, painful noise over his shoulder resembling someone breaking a body part, although the noise was faded and difficult to pinpoint.

The journal was closed before the Frenchman did anything else. He then peered over his shoulder to search for the source of the noise, expecting it to be nothing more than his own imagination.

Usually, the park was left abandoned in the fall and winter seasons, mainly because it was too cold to be worth a stroll through. Not even foolish couples would venture out of their warm houses for a romantic walk through the park if it was during the winter seasons, and Francis had just been lucky enough not to mind the horrid British weather that day.

Then that left out a good question: if it wasn't a foolish couple out in this weather breaking bones, then who was it?

Francis stilled as he searched over his shoulder, eyes spotting a figure through a throng of trees. It might have just been his creative imagination, but Francis was sure that he had seen them hanging upside down in a tree not too far away. The stranger was wrestling with something, his figure swarming incessantly.

Francis turned back around and tucked his journal underneath his arm. He also pocketed his pencil, just as he heard the tree give way behind him and the stranger crash to the ground.

The noise might have been subtle from so far away, but Francis could feel his heart flutter in response to what was probably actually very painful.

Francis stood, turned, and began to approach the tree where the stranger had collapsed.

Once he got close enough, Francis could see that the stranger lay sprawled out at the base of the tree, his body covered in a white fabric barely covering his thighs. There were light patches of blood that Francis spotted, which concerned him, but even odder was the rest of his attire.

Francis glanced up to see a good strap of the other's clothing floating in the tree above, and some strange sandals that looked like they might match a Halloween costume well.

Ah, so that meant that either this man was crazy or homeless—or both.

Should he go right away and call for help, or wait until the stranger came-to?

The stranger was still breathing- which Francis acknowledged upon closer analysis- and apparently he was conscious enough to move his toes.

Having enough nerve to approach the stranger, Francis finished covering the space between him and the other and leaned over to peer at his (probably exhausted) face.

His face was anything but beautiful—tousled blond locks were spread across the male's face, his chest gently heaving up and down with exasperated breaths, much more ragged than Francis had first conceived, wearing that horrid strip of fabric that couldn't possibly be called _clothing_.

But his face, so smooth and beautiful... despite the mess, his face was resemblant of an angel.

It was then that the stranger opened his green eyes and Francis reacted with a smile, slightly shocked by the bright eyes that widened upon seeing Francis's face.

The stranger started immediately and Francis leaned back to give him some space to breathe. He crawled himself into a sitting position and retreated until his back hit the tree he had fallen from, one hand pressed against his chest and the other extended towards Francis, palm out, barring him away.

"S-stay back!" the other exclaimed, in the thickest British accent Francis had ever heard.

Instantly Francis fended off a vicious grin.

Francis had developed a natural dislike of the British since birth, and had a habit of aggravating them (which was especially easy to do now that he lived in England, God save him). With this man it didn't look like it would take much to agitate him.

Francis didn't feel as obligated to agitate this Brit, however. It would only upset the stranger further if he did that, which might accidentally lead him to hurt himself if he hadn't already.

Instead, Francis knelt before the stranger and extended a hand.

"I didn't intend to frighten you," Francis spoke slowly, attempting to placate the other's probably racing heartbeat.

The other's face failed to convey any reassurance upon hearing Francis's voice. He kept his back firmly pressed against the oak tree behind him, eying Francis distrustfully.

Well then. Either Francis's charms were failing him, or something was wrong with this man.

When Francis didn't make a move to touch him, the other visibly relaxed and raised his hand to press the palm against his forehead, eliciting a sigh from his raspy throat.

 _What a poor man_ , Francis thought, _all cut up and frightened._

Francis fell silent then, watching the stranger pitifully, thinking of his whereabouts.

People couldn't say that Francis was overreacting when he considered that this man might have escaped an asylum, right? _Anything is feasible,_ Francis defended to himself.

There was always the possibility that he was from a Halloween party, but then again this stranger wasn't drunk and even if he was, a drunk man wouldn't have the coordination to climb high enough into the tree to receive the sort of wounds he had.

In the midst of Francis's own imagination, the other spoke and startled him into turning his attention back onto conversation.

"Well?" the other asked, his shining emerald eyes soon on Francis, cautiously glancing him over until his eyes returned to Francis's and it looked like he was content with what he saw.

He sat himself up a little taller after the question was asked and stared at Francis unyieldingly.

The question took Francis off-guard and for a moment he stared back at the Brit, bewildered.

"Well what?" Francis condescendingly retorted, his eyes shining as he observed the other's frustrated expression.

" _Je m'excuse_ ," He then ceded, and made a small gesture towards the other. "What is your name?" he probed.

"I am Arthur Kirkland," he stated strongly and then reached out for a handshake.

Francis's eyes caught the hand, but he didn't make any move to shake it. After all, it was a British stranger, and Francis didn't have much faith in either, especially if it was a _half-naked_ British stranger, French stereotypes set aside.

"I am Francis Bonnefoy," he replied in return, watching the other for a reaction.

Arthur's expression shifted slightly, maybe in mild offense. He pressed his hand against the tree currently supporting him, maybe attempting to placate some unease Francis didn't sense.

When he didn't display an intent to ask any more questions, Francis went on to ask the Brit his own. "Do you need me to call someone to help you?" He inquired.

Arthur's expression twisted into slight discomfort, and then his eyes returned to Francis, searching almost pleadingly for a response Francis didn't know he was supposed to give.

"I-I'm sorry, this is so sudden... I have nowhere to go, and I don't want to go to authorities. Could you- maybe- bother to spare a room for me tonight?"

He seemed uncomfortable, but then Francis was not surprised by that. He suspected that the other wasn't exactly pleased about asking for shelter from a stranger.

Although the other's origin was, of course, highly questionable, and the idea of this man escaping from a mad house was not unwarranted, Francis sympathized for the poor man who had fallen from a tree and sympathized more with his lack of good taste in clothing.

Arthur was shivering as Francis thought, and he felt compelled to help him when he was in this pitiable condition. Francis probably knew _animals_ that lived better off than this.

He stood and slid his unbuttoned coat from his shoulders and then decidedly handed it over to Arthur. Be it a confirmation that he would help Arthur or just an offering to keep him warm, either way Francis was no longer uneasy.

Arthur accepted the coat and shifted to pull it over his shoulders. With apt movement, he buttoned it, eyes glancing down only once to ensure that he was buttoning the coat together correctly.

Afterwards, Arthur attempted to hoist himself to his feet, but ended up staggering back against the tree instead. Francis could see that he was having trouble, moving closer to assist. Arthur's eyes briefly glanced up before he grabbed for Francis's hand and raised himself to his feet.

"Thank you," he muttered, flattening Francis's coat against his frame with one hand whilst the other still held fast onto his hand.

"It is nothing. Here, I will show you to my apartment."

Francis despairingly glanced at his marred jacket, taking note of the dirty marks Arthur was leaving on it (although in reality it was probably better he have it—the jacket covered to Arthur's knees, a feat his torn pillowcase never would have accomplished).

He then raised his eyes to Arthur and gestured with one hand for him to walk ahead.

The Brit didn't look so willing to do so, however.

He fidgeted unhappily and then cast a glance back at Francis. "I cannot go yet. I need my sandals from the tree first." He then freed Francis's hand from his grasp and pointed at them, tangled in the tree that he had climbed.

 _They couldn't even be_ normal _sandals, for goodness's sake_ , Francis thought, noting the twisted strands of leather.

He looked back at Arthur, expression deadpan. "You do not actually expect me to climb into the tree and get them for you, do you?" he asked.

"Do you plan to let me walk around barefoot?" Arthur instantly retorted.

If Francis let him do so, who knows how many thorns he would get stuck in his feet. He wasn't sure what a pair of flimsy leather things was going to do for his feet, but they would be better than nothing would.

The Frenchman glanced back at the oak tree, feeling some relief seeing that Arthur had only climbed a short height before he fell. That meant it was less likely that Arthur needed medical care but even better that Francis wouldn't either.

Unsmiling, Francis began to approach the great tree and took one glance up the round trunk of it to scout out the accursed sandals.

"Why were you wearing the things anyways?" Francis called as he began to climb the tree, beginning by planting a polished shoe on the bulky bark at the base.

He reached for a branch above his head and slowly pulled himself onto it.

"They came with the tunic," Arthur replied, face stern and unamused.

Francis spared an entertained glance at him before he continued to climb.

The moment was over as quick as Francis could make it- he climbed as high as he needed to, grabbed the sandals (keeping yanking to free them at a minimum), and then gingerly lowered himself back onto the ground.

Arthur was eager to reclaim the sandals Francis had worked to retrieve, and the moment they were handed over, he sat down and began to tie the straps back onto his feet. At that point, Francis was almost entirely sure the man had the worst fashion sense imaginable (he even knew how to tie the things onto his legs, for God's sake!).

Francis rushed to urge him back to his feet and out of the park—Arthur was underdressed, and with an impending cold front coming as night loomed ahead, he did not want to be caught in the worse of it. In addition, Arthur's wounds were worrying him; he had let him waste his time fetching sandals when they could have already been back in his apartment, in the warmth, tending to his nasty cuts.

Arthur complied with Francis's urgings to leave and followed him through the park, no words exchanged as they walked although glances more than made up for that.

Francis's concern for Arthur's wounds lingered always in the back of his mind but there were no signs of pain from Arthur (not even a wince, he noticed) until they were out on the sidewalk.

As they passed the park's gates, Francis and Arthur entered a narrow sidewalk, overlooking Francis's tall apartment complex across the street, only a sea of traffic keeping the two from crossing it.

Arthur resumed fidgeting and when Francis glanced over, he saw that the Brit was staring intently at the vehicles that passed by. A honk sounded and he started beside him, whipping his head back as though he thought a car would appear behind him.

"Are you okay?" Francis inquired to him, somewhat concerned for his overall sanity, brows knitted with worry.

"I-I'm just not used to the city, is all," he reassured in a thick, frightened British accent.

If Arthur said it was nothing then Francis had no reason not to believe him, and yet he wondered if something was the matter with him. The Brit looked frightened out of his wits, after all.

"You don't have to be frightened. It's not like you're going to get pulverized by a passing car."

He said the words without much forethought, maybe as an attempt to vanquish the sympathy rising against his naturally cold demeanor. What could Francis say; he wasn't much of an open sympathizer.

The look on Arthur's face was pitiful, making Francis almost want to wince in response; he didn't regret his sour words though, knowing they were, for the most part, true.

The traffic slowly began to stop and then the crosswalk's stoplight turned green, beckoning them across.

Arthur didn't look eager to cross but Francis urged him to nonetheless.

As they began to walk across the street, Arthur practically glued himself to Francis's side, the "deer caught in the headlights" analogy perfectly illustrating his expression.

Francis walked slightly in front of him, almost as a gesture to stop him from glaring at the cars over his shoulder.

At some point Francis had moved his hand away from Arthur's but almost immediately afterwards felt the other's groping fingers searching for his touch.

Begrudgingly, Francis allowed the other to hold his hand, although a glance to Arthur's face told him that he was only making the gesture in the first place to forge comfort from this apparently horrid encounter.

Soon enough they were across the street, and Francis foolishly suspected that, since the cars were gone now, Arthur would no longer have a reason to worry.

Unfortunately, Arthur unyieldingly kept hold of his hand as he gazed up at Francis's apartment complex, now standing in front of them. His eyes didn't waver as he examined the tall building, eyes scrutinizing every detail of his surroundings.

"I ensure you that it is warmer inside than it is outside, _mon cheri_." Francis sanctioned and then led him through the glass door to the lobby of his apartment.

He hurriedly sped up when he heard the other's mangled attempts to protest, his voice only returning once Francis stopped in the middle of the lobby.

"Are your wounds bothering you?" Francis inquired.

Arthur glanced up, scowling, as he briefly nodded his head. "Yes, they f*cking hurt!" he exclaimed vehemently.

It was a wonder how Arthur hadn't broken his hand off at this point.

Several people in the lobby sent glances at them after the exclamation was voiced and Francis immediately became aware of the eyes resting on them. He already had problems with his apartment manager just for being French.

 _Racism is a terrible thing_ , Francis thought, as the man watched him from across the room with a stealthy glare.

Francis didn't want the man thinking unruly things about him and the semi-suspicious man he was interacting with, Francis with an established reputation and the other practically confirming the suspicions growing around him, his foul language only making things worse.

Francis hastened to stalk across the room to the elevator, ceaselessly tugging Arthur along.

"Come on, let us get going- shall we take the elevator? That sounds like a good idea," Francis cajoled, without granting Arthur much of an opportunity for a response as he began to nudge him towards the elevator.

Arthur reacted like a finicky child and scampered away from the elevator the more Francis tried to push him towards it.

"Can't we just take the stairs?" he half-pleadingly inquired and Francis sighed, embarrassed by the man's foreign reaction to the street and now the elevator.

There was no use arguing with the mad man.

"Fine, we will take the stairs," Francis then complied, and began to lead the man upstairs.

The other people's eyes were leaving them, eliciting a relieved sigh from Francis.

He then focused his attention back onto Arthur as the two treaded the stairs to his fourth story apartment. Arthur didn't seem to be enjoying the walk at all- he continued to grab onto the railing for support, and was beginning to slow his pace so as not to get exhausted too quickly. He was already breathing heavily on the second story.

"You're bleeding. Why didn't you let us use the elevator? We might already be there if you let us use it," Francis complained.

Arthur's eyes shone menacingly as he looked back at Francis and an unhappy grimace made its way onto his face. "I don't care how bloody badly it hurts as long as it means I'm not stepping into that rectangular monstrosity."

Words failed Francis as he gazed back at Arthur, surprised by his spiteful comment. He was beginning to think that having expectations for the other was a foolish venture and not expecting any more than human speech from him was probably best.

Eventually they reached the fourth floor, and Francis gestured for Arthur to follow down the hallway to his room.

Once Francis reached his apartment door, he drew a key from his pocket to unlock it. There was a click, and then Francis deposited the key and swung the door open for Arthur to enter.

Arthur slowly stepped in to observe his new surroundings, taking a glance back at Francis to thank him for holding the door open.

A wide window spanned the length of the nearest wall, providing a perfect view of the park across the street. There were two bookshelves lined against a different wall, a television near the middle of the room, a couch, and a coffee table in the living room. The kitchen resided a little ways away, and an adjacent hallway led to a closet, bathroom, and master bedroom.

Arthur didn't seem impressed, nor interested, in his surroundings; he simply seated himself on the couch, exhaustion evident on his face as he took careless glances at Francis's apartment.

He bent down and began to undo the laces to his sandals, casting them underneath the coffee table. He preceded to unbutton and remove Francis's coat from his shoulders as well, the gashes on Arthur's arms making Francis wince. As he closed the door to his apartment, he spoke as steadily as he could, Arthur's attention returning to him.

"I will go get my first aid kit," he informed, and then rushed out of the room to get his things (taking a short stop by the bookshelf to drop his journal off).

Once Francis returned, he saw that Arthur was half-asleep, the wounds apparently being no threat to his comfort as he began to nod off. He had managed to pull both his legs onto the couch and was using Francis's coat as a pillow.

This was ridiculous. If the Brit wasn't even going to stay awake long enough to be treated then things were only going to get worse for him.

Francis approached the couch and gently nudged Arthur into a sitting position. With a groan Arthur complied, adjusting Francis's coat across his lap, as he opened his eyes once more.

Once he was sitting erectly again, Francis sat beside Arthur and placed his first aid kit on his lap.

"I hope you know that I was trying to sleep," Arthur roughly whined.

"Unless you want your wounds to get infected, you'll stay awake," Francis advised callously and then opened the first aid kit and took some cotton balls and iodine out, placing them on his knee.

"Here, bring me your arm first," He stated and Arthur begrudgingly complied, placing his arm in Francis's hand.

Francis held his arm gently, wondering if maybe he was malnourished. His arm was so skinny that he tried to be as fragile as he could with Arthur's body. After pouring iodine onto a cotton ball, Francis began to clean the wounds on his arms, smiling lightly as Arthur flinched back from the stinging fluid.

Francis, however, held fast as the other squirmed. A little pain never hurt _that_ badly, after all (and it was doing better to heal Arthur than sleeping would have).

"It is for your own good," Francis insisted as he finished cleaning Arthur's left arm and moved onto the right one.

"It stings very badly," Arthur mumbled in quiet, timid submission.

Francis continued to clean his arms and shoulders in relative silence, and once that task was done, Francis's eyes glazed over his body in search of any other bad wounds, for once not eliciting a grimace from the body's owner just because of a little once-over.

"You fell on your back, yes? Would you mind if you turned around and let me inspect it?" Francis inquired.

It was abnormal how relaxed Arthur was when wearing only a small strap of fabric. He didn't seem to mind, either, when Francis inquired about his back, to the Frenchman's surprise.

It felt even more oddly comforting to Francis to be so chaste with a person's body, especially with the touching. He had grown so used to being lewd, to being slapped and denied... with Arthur, he felt trusted not to do anything that he never intended to do anyways.

Without a word, Arthur turned around in his seat so that his back was facing Francis, and then slid the single strap off his shoulder so the fabric dropped from his torso, revealing his wounded back to Francis.

Initially, Francis was not concerned with the wounds on Arthur's back. Francis was mulling over Arthur's poor attire, and complained about it before he even tended to the rest of Arthur's wounds.

"Maybe I should let you borrow some of my clothing. These rags are _hideux_ ," Francis complained as he watched the fabric being easily removed from Arthur's back.

"They're not rags," Arthur immediately retorted.

"Well, they certainly aren't _clothing_ ," Francis continued to mock, slowly beginning to apply a cotton ball of iodine to Arthur's wounds. "Although I am not sure how much help I can give. I am slender and fit, but you..."

It wasn't until Francis glanced down that he noticed the wounds on Arthur's back and stopped mid-sentence.

There were two dark, long patches of skin on Arthur's back, unlike the cuts Francis had seen before. They ran along the shoulder blades and appeared to be scars, although they looked so ragged that Francis couldn't begin to imagine what kind of weapon would leave a pattern like that.

The rest of Francis's complaint stuck in his throat, and upon hearing his stuttering, Arthur turned to glance back at him, face pink with frustration.

"For the last time, they're not-"

"Arthur," Francis interjected, "how did you get these scars on your back?"

"What—"

But Arthur caught himself, and his question cut short. He turned his head away instead, and began to stare out the window.

Arthur fell silent, groping for an answer, as his body remained tense and unnerved.

It was only after Francis asked the question that he realized it might have brought up unsavory memories for the other. They seemed too old to have been from the tree fall, and from the way Arthur began to stutter, Francis knew that he probably didn't want to share the source of the wounds with him.

After all, whatever had happened to inflict such ugly wounds on Arthur's back couldn't be pleasant to remember.

"Pardon me for asking," Francis solemnly apologized, and then continued to slather Arthur's wounds with iodine to cleanse them (making sure to keep away from the alarming scars).

There was a sigh from Arthur and then he shook his head. "I'm just as surprised as you are," he grimly muttered.

Francis lacked the knowledge to understand what Arthur meant, but didn't question the statement. Maybe it was so traumatizing that he forgot.

He gingerly wrapped Arthur's wounds with ace bandage and then went to put everything away.

When he returned, Arthur had lied himself down again and was snoozing away, somehow, even if his wounds should have been burning so badly as to bar him from even moving an inch.


	4. Accomodations

Stretching his sore legs out on the short couch, Arthur woke the next morning with a tired yawn. He felt his toes slip from the arm of the couch into the air as he stretched, hastening to pull his toes back underneath a blanket he didn't know he had.

Initially, Arthur had no idea where he was. Then he heard a distinct voice that, strangely, calmed his nerves, although the man was a near-stranger to him.

"Bonjour mon ami," Francis chirped; an odd sizzling sound followed his voice from somewhere behind Arthur's shoulder.

Slightly stunned, Arthur raised his head from the couch and peered into the kitchen at the stranger that had assisted him the night prior.

His wavy, blonde hair was tied back with a blue ribbon; his eyes trained on the pan before him as he flipped something yellow inside of it with the stroke of his well-trained hand.

"Good morning..." Arthur replied hesitantly, watching the flames as he pushed the blanket from his lap, shuddering as the cold hit his exposed legs.

Francis tilted his head in Arthur's direction and swept a hand towards him, gesturing to his clothing. "You can find some clothing in the dresser in my bedroom. Certainly anything is better than that torn bed sheet," he stated, grimacing at Arthur's seemingly nonexistent attire and waving a disapproving spatula at it.

"And consider washing up a bit before breakfast, non?" He added.

His coat was still draped around Arthur's body, and Arthur lifted it back around his shoulders as he stood, flattening his tunic against his frame, aggravated by how little it covered. The strap had been replaced too, forgotten after his back had been cleaned the night prior.

Tuncis were not good for covering legs, torn or not, Arthur thought sullenly.

But still, there was a difference between a bloody _bed sheet_ and a tunic.

"If you must know, it is a tunic—or at least it was, before it was desecrated!" Arthur called as he wandered through the small apartment to Francis's bedroom, ignoring the faraway retort he heard from the Frenchman—something about it not being his fault that the Brit had bad taste in clothing.

Following the hallway down to Francis's bedroom, Arthur entered the room, silently closing the door behind him.

Francis's bedroom wasn't as luxurious as he thought it would be; the place was a little messy, but the strewn clothing did not constitute luxury. There was a small window, a neatly made bed covered in dirty clothing, and a dresser sparsely decorated with a single mirror and brush.

Since there didn't seem to be anything worth bothering (not that he would), Arthur bent down in front of the dresser, searching through a myriad of colorful clothing for something that he might find suitable to wear.

Not wanting to be too intrusive, he chose plain black-and-white clothing, as was his usual attire..

Arthur had just returned from Heaven and was not yet ready to regress into suits, jackets, and enough extra articles of clothing to overwhelm him. Eventually he would have to stop dressing in tunics and get used to clothing that covered a lot more area than he was used to, which was both fortunate and a burden in Arthur's mind, mostly because he could wear the suits he missed so much, but also a burden as he would have to get used to them again.

He spared a glance in the mirror on Francis's dresser, seeing a reflection of himself that he hadn't seen in over one hundred years. The body, the face... they were both his, but he hadn't remembered the lashes or the disheveled hair that made his face his, nor his eyes or smallish frame.

His cheek was smudged with dirt and his hair looked ready for a cleaning (when didn't it?) so Arthur went in search of water to clean himself with.

He went to the bathroom that connected to Francis's bedroom and washed the dirt from his face and arms. It took a while to distinguish what each device was used for and he had made quite a racket in the end, but he managed to clean himself. Did Francis not know how many machines he had that spouted water from them? He could bother to remove one or two.

Afterwards, Arthur returned with Francis's coat slung over his left arm and his tunic nestled underneath, dressed in a white undershirt and black slacks, sockless.

Francis's eyes were on him as soon as he entered the living room, glancing with approval. "A little dull, but much better," he mused, before turning back to his cooking.

Arthur walked his way towards the kitchen, sitting himself across from Francis, slinging his clothing over the back of his chair, watching as Francis cooked themselves breakfast.

He didn't know how much technology had advanced since the 1800's, but it was beyond what he'd expected. He had never seen anything like the contraption Francis was using to cook their breakfast nor any of the instruments he had discovered in the bathroom.

Leaning over, he watched with interest as Francis cooked, no concern evident on his face, although Arthur was a little more than wary about the open flame.

Once the food was fully cooked, Francis dispensed the yellow mystery food on two plates and began to fetch some silverware.

"How are your wounds, mon cher?" Francis inquired, opening a drawer to take out some forks and spoons.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, displaying a more dominant interest in Francis's cooking; he wasn't used to seeing people cook food before. "I haven't felt them at all, actually," he informed.

Arthur supposed that his angelic past might be involved in that, but he wasn't sure.

"Bien," Francis hummed back as he returned, placing the silverware on the table, the plates of food quick to follow. "If the wounds start acting up again, tell me," he said, as he sat.

The whole kitchen wafted with the fresh scent of food, making Arthur's stomach rumble as he accepted his plate from Francis. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to be hungry until he smelled the beautiful scent of Francis's freshly-made dish.

After one bite, Arthur hummed with glee, eyes falling back on Francis, the one who had cooked this amazing breakfast.

"Was this hard to make?" He asked, making Francis pause.

His expression indicated to Arthur the depth of the ridiculousness in his question. "I would hate to live in a world where cooking an omelet is difficult," he mused, his lips twitching into a smile.

For a moment, Arthur was shocked by Francis's response, unable to wrap his mind around it. It wasn't difficult? At all? Then it occurred to him - as he was remembering upon first waking- that things were different now.

There were newer, shiny vehicles moving people around and it shouldn't have been a surprise for Arthur to realise that cooking had changed too. Didn't all these new metal boxes solidify that enough for him already?

For a minute, Arthur stopped eating to ponder how he was going to begin adjusting to everything. He certainly wasn't going to begin by trying to cook, but maybe it would be worth inquiring to Francis about the new vehicles he had talked about, or maybe he should begin with the thing that stored the food Francis had used to cook their breakfast...

A snap of Francis's fingers brought Arthur back from his thoughts. He raised his head, looking at the Frenchman quizzically.

"What?" He queried.

"I said, it might come as a surprise to a Brit like you but digestible food actually does exist," he mocked.

The unexpected comment resulted in a smile. As he hadn't digested food in so long, he couldn't even remember what good food tasted like.

"Well, that's quite a relief," he replied half-joking, before returned to eating, catching Francis off-guard, the amusing expression eliciting a grin from him. For now, maybe observing would be enough.

* * *

The rest of breakfast went on in silence until both had finished eating and Francis was already taking the dishes to the sink without being prompted.

Arthur had been turning things over in his mind, planning, predicting. How would Francis react if he asked to stay? He seemed to be the sort used to playing host, but he only had one bedroom; which meant Francis didn't have the room to accommodate Arthur, even if they could somehow skip the problems of being a stranger to Francis and the man's overall privacy.

While watching Francis wash the dishes as though he wasn't there, Arthur finally decided to pop the question.

"Francis, I'm sorry to ask this of you, but... I-I'm relatively homeless right now and-"

"And you need to stay here for a while, oui?" Francis finished for him, thank goodness.

He turned around, placing a dirty washing rag against his hip. Arthur warily raised his head to return his gaze. With a sigh, Francis said, "I suppose you could stay for a while."

The words brought immense relief to Arthur. Francis's interjection of "But you better not be involved with anything illegal" didn't worry him, (after all, what could he possibly be doing illegally?).

Francis turned back to dish washing, Arthur content with his conceding.

"I really hope you don't plan to climb another tree any time soon though because I don't want to be the one who has to pay your hospital bill," Francis scolded idly, nearing the last of the dishes.

"I had no intentions of climbing any trees in the first place, I'll have you know," Arthur lightly retorted.

Francis, who had turned to cast a sideways glance at him, gave him a strange look. "Then why did you climb it in the first place?" He asked.

Arthur was already seething with his mistake and refused to talk any more on the topic.

"I'd rather not talk about that," he replied, grimacing. He hoped his expression was enough to dissuade Francis from asking any further questions.

Instead, Francis turned around fully then, both eyebrows raised. "No, really! If you didn't want to climb it, then how did you get into it in the first place?"

Arthur's mind was rushing. Telling a stranger about his origins was forbidden—or to him, at least. He didn't want the other to think of him as crazy thus ruining his chances of having a place to stay for the night. However refusing to tell Francis anything would probably result in the same thing.

He had to word it in a way that would get Francis to let go of the question altogether. It was his only chance of staying.

"I was dropped into the tree, Francis, and if that isn't enough for you then I don't know what else to tell you."

Probably not the smartest words to ever come from his mouth, especially since they didn't make any sense. They made Arthur feel more like a dolt than the intelligent Brit he had hoped to portray.

Francis stood staring almost relentlessly and Arthur turned his head away, bracing for another oncoming question, already forming a retort in his mind.

Luckily for Arthur, he clicked his tongue, shook his head and turned away from him as he began to put the dishes away.

"You say some odd things, Arthur," was his only comment.

Sighing, Arthur relaxed back into his chair. Either Francis didn't have enough initiative to continue pestering him about the tree or he had caught on that Arthur wasn't willing to go into details.

The subject was behind them now with hopes that it wouldn't resurface again.

"Now Arthur, I have some chores to do today. Unless you have something else to do, would you like to come with me?" Francis asked, putting Arthur at ease.

"Well, I don't have anything else better to do," He replied, watching Francis with a smile.

* * *

Arthur sat watching Francis's television as the news played, a British woman pointing to a map of the UK that was covered in numbers and clouds, mulling over the exceptional day he had experienced.

First Francis had urged him into one of the moving monstrosities he called a car (which sounded vaguely familiar—maybe because it reminded Arthur of carriage; at least he hadn't had to go into the "elevator" Francis had complained about yesterday,) and then they had gone to a grocery store to buy a few things. For Arthur, it was a relief that Francis hadn't bought things in the odd cardboard and plastic boxes he kept seeing, although he still would have preferred a normal market averse to the building they shopped in.

Next they had taken a short trip back to Francis's apartment to put the food away before ging down to the laundromat to wash some clothes (luckily, it seemed, Francis's apartment came with some extra amenities). Francis's coat had gone, but Arthur's tunic was too fragile for washing.

Afterwards, Francis insisted upon an early lunch and so took Arthur to a small café to have fruit and a few sandwiches. Idle talk about favorite foods were amongst the several subjects breached throughout their meal.

Arthur explained that he loved fish and chips, whilst Francis insisted that croissants and pastries were better and that he didn't understand how Arthur couldn't see British cooking as the garbage it truly was. Fortunately, Arthur hadn't pushed the subject because he hadn't been here long enough to know what his culture's food now tasted like (if it had even changed at all; either way the old food was foreign to a man who hadn't eaten in over a century).

Francis had also inquired to Arthur about clothing- this time making a comment about his lack of taste in clothing- to which Arthur confessed that he didn't have anything to wear besides the tunic that Francis refused to address as such.

That had resulted in another trip, this time to a tailor's (Francis had insisted that it was called something else, but Arthur hadn't bothered to remember the name).

Arthur attempted to stray away from voicing abnormal comments or questions about the things he saw throughout the day, but several times words had slipped and Francis had generally returned the comments with an eyebrow raise.

It became apparent to Arthur that Francis thought he was homeless considering his questions to Arthur throughout the day. They were usually off-handed remarks such as, "You have seen one before, non?" When pointing to something, or the more common "...In case you weren't aware," which was sometimes tacked onto the ends of his comments.

Arthur's responses varied.

He tried to ignore most of them or simply hum out a response but other times when he really showed an interest in something he'd bother to question Francis further.

Overall, he had learned a great deal of things about the twenty-first century, although there were still many things he had to learn before he could live comfortably.

"I hope you have spent enough time watching TV," Francis interjected as he strolled towards Arthur, who returned from his reverie to smile at Francis.

"I haven't been listening to a word she's said, actually," he replied, gesturing to the meteorologist on TV.

"Then come, dinner is ready," Francis urged, Arthur eager to comply.

The scent of Francis's food ventured throughout the apartment. There were chocolate-filled croissants, raspberries, a light salad, and chicken spread across the dining table.

Arthur seated himself and was already picking his way through his dinner, the croissant the first to go. The meal might not have been fish and chips, but it was food cooked by a very capable cook (and it definitely showed).

"Do you get guests often?" He inquired between a bite of a croissant, the chocolate filling him with happiness.

"Non, not often, although having guests over is wonderful, especially because I love to cook," Francis returned mildly as he sat down.

Huh. Arthur would have figured that such a capable and social host would have people visiting frequently.

"And who taught you to cook?" He continued, curious now.

"My aunt Janine for the most part. My mother and father worked frequently, so they often left me with Janine and her husband, and since they couldn't have children, they didn't mind caring for me instead. What about your family?" He questioned in return.

Arthur lowered his croissant and raised his eyes to Francis', his expression strained. He'd say a little bit about them but stay wary about mentioning anything that might lead to talk about Heaven.

"Ah. Well, I have three brothers who can really be shits when they want to and a mother who has to put up with all of us, even my father who is... not a gentle man."

If he were frank, he would have simply confessed that his father was rougher on Arthur than his brothers were, although the man was much more understanding.

How could Arthur ever describe his father without making him sound like a paradox? "My father's such a wonderful and intelligent man when he's not trying to pick on me for my apparently outrageously bushy eyebrows and poor sense of adventure" would never work as an understandable explanation (and for the record he could be adventurous—it was just that he didn't always want to be).

"I'm sure they miss you," Francis noted, cocking his head to the side. "Do they know where you are?"

That was when Arthur realized that talk about his father was the least of his worries because here came the inevitable question for another round.

"...Yes, they do know where I am," He replied without lying, knowing that doing so would only make things twice as difficult as they already were. He braced for questions, gripping the corner of the table as Francis started asking them.

"Then why are you not living with them? Did you have an argument with them or something? Cher, you can tell me these things. You don't have to lie to me."

There it was, Francis's sympathies played out in front of him and suggesting- as Arthur suspected- that he had somehow lied.

"I can't live with them, Francis. That would be impossible and trust me, I'm not lying to you. I'm trying to say this in the most sensible way I can."

"But none of this is making any sense!" Francis objected.

Of course he would be confused. Not only did he not know why Arthur was being secretive, but he also didn't know where Arthur had come from and why he couldn't go to his family for help. He didn't know that they were in bloody Heaven and that if Arthur could ask for their help, Then he would have already.

"I swear Arthur, I don't understand why you can't simply tell the truth. I've been trying to be patient with you, but you are so cryptic. Every time I expect something to make sense it just grows more confusing."

Francis had his elbows on the table now, head in his hands, and was staring at his food with a frustrated expression.

His despair wasn't enough to sway Arthur, however.

Why should he give up this big secret just because Francis was complaining a bit? What would happen once Francis knew anyway? Whatever the other's reaction, it wasn't worth giving away Arthur's secret.

Even so, it was his first day here and he was already messing things up.

"Look, I really, really can't be persuaded to tell anyone what's happened to me right now. If you really want to know, then please prove that I can trust you and be patient."

Francis showed resolve after that, raising his head and reaching back over for his silverware. " _Bien alors_ , Arthur. If you don't want to tell me the truth right now, then I will wait until you are ready."

He resumed eating, as did Arthur, hesitantly.

After that, Arthur no longer felt at ease. He sat stiffly in his chair (which couldn't be good for his back,) and cast continuous glances at Francis throughout dinner. If he just bloody understood, he wouldn't be so finicky about him keeping his secrets.

Admittedly, Francis did deserve an explanation; after all, he had willingly allowed Arthur to stay here and he had already gone out of his way to make sure that he wasn't walking around half-naked (or more, considering the tunic's worsened state).

But still! This was Arthur's personal secret and he had the right to tell it to whomever he wanted, when he wanted.

He was finishing his plate, his emerald eyes darting to Francis more often.

He was busy checking his watch, plate already empty. Once Francis raised his eyes, he caught Arthur's gaze and lowered his wrist.

"Quoi?" He inquired, expression distinctly curious.

Arthur sighed, pushing his plate away. "Please don't pester me about my past. It's already bad enough that your complaint keeps rewinding in my head," he stated timidly.

Arthur didn't know how it was feasible, but Francis almost seemed to have forgotten the conversation that had been spoken between them not less than half a bloody hour ago. Francis didn't show any of the expected signs of apprehension or irritation on his face, although he did look a bit... tired, despite his smile.

"Did you not believe me? Arthur, I will not pester you if you do not want to tell me. I will not push. There are just some things about your story that are more than a little ridiculous."

Arthur sat still for a moment, surprised. Francis... wasn't going to insist Arthur tell him? Not at all, even if his comments didn't make any sense? He could already hear future arguments whirring in his head, but since Francis's words suited his resolve to keep the truth a secret he would allow it.

"Well then... thank you, very much," Arthur replied, somewhat more at ease then.

Francis nodded his head, rising and reaching over for Arthur's plate; however, Arthur wouldn't let go of it.

"Actually, Francis, I can do the dishes. You look a little tired," he said.

Francis swept a hand through his hair, nodding. "Oui. It has been a busy day and now I must get ready for work."

Arthur had remembered Francis saying something about work when they were eating at lunch, Francis deciding that, at that moment, it was a good time to mention that he worked at a "night establishment."

Apparently that meant waiting tables, although the light Francis portrayed his job as being didn't sound as pleasant as Arthur had anticipated.

"They need someone to cover late shifts, non? Since I don't have anything better to do, I took it. It's fine, I still get about five hours of sleep. It's all I need. And I only work weekdays with that job-sometimes not even that if someone takes my shift," Francis had explained reassuringly, after Arthur had questioned why he had to stay up so late.

Arthur rose and began to clean dishes, following the routine Francis had used that morning to clean them.

"I will go to change then," Francis commented and then left for a good hour before he returned.

As that time passed, Arthur finished cleaning the dishes and had moved to the couch, doing virtually nothing but patiently (patiently, he thought, although that was not at all true) waiting for Francis to return. He had picked through Francis's bookshelf for something to read but that had only resulted in sneers and romance novels pushed back onto the shelves.

It was late, around nine, when Francis came back dressed in a neat waiter's outfit. He was tying his hair back as he walked, approaching the couch.

"I am leaving now, Arthur," Francis informed, resting a hand on the arm of the couch. "You may take the bed, since I will not be back until three. Do not be surprised if you hear something at night—that will be me."

Arthur cast a glance at Francis, a very brief once-over, and then nodded his head.

Francis was preparing to leave, but Arthur, although tired, didn't want to neglect to thank him for all that he had done, even if Francis had neglected to warn him that getting ready would take over an hour.

"Francis," Arthur called, to which Francis turned back around. "I want to thank you for doing so much for me today."

He could see the smile that lit Francis's face and concluded that he had made the right decision by voicing his thanks.

"It was nothing," Francis said with modesty, before he left with a chiding "adieu."

* * *

That night, Arthur slept easily, never woken by Francis. Instead, it was the sound of traffic outside that woke him.

During those faint hours of consciousness, Arthur silently mulled over Heaven, wondering how much of it he'd already missed. He also thought about Francis and his hopes of investing something of a future here, eyes unblinking as he stared at the lit ceiling of Francis's bedroom, the traffic undying outside.

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter's up! Thanks to a friend I refer to as Noir for the majority of Francis's characterization and to Mint for grammar and word choice~**

 **Also, as always, happy reading!**


	5. The Truth

Despite how mysterious Arthur was, Francis had good days with him.

For example, there was Wednesday (which was Francis sixth day with the brit), when he had allowed Arthur to buy some earl grey when they went to the grocery store.

If only he had known what he was doing.

Francis, who was making lunch, had mentioned taking Arthur to the grocery store with him as Arthur listened from his chair at the dining table.

"That's rather generous of you Francis; thank you," Arthur replied in his usually proper tone.

That was silly. There was nothing "generous" about it, and there was something almost too comforting about the smiles Arthur was casting towards him. As Francis made lunch, Arthur had continued to smile at him; it was overkill in his opinion.

Francis (who had never been easy to fluster) was beside himself in discomfort over Arthur's kind treatment towards him. He was supposed to be complaining, not smiling!

"What is your usual schedule, by the way?" Arthur inquired. "Do you have anything else going on once we've finished buying groceries?"

Relieved by the distraction of the question, Francis responded. "To be honest, I don't really do much," he admitted. "On workdays I sleep much of the day, go for walks, or visit the library. I mainly stay at home."

That reply, Francis thought, was impenetrable.

"Then that's just more socializing for us," Arthur figured, to Francis's disbelief. Something conniving was underfoot. Francis squinted his eyes at him, resulting (unfortunately) in another poke.

"Are you okay? You seem a little distant." Arthur was either good at concealing his smirk or he was doing all of this involuntarily. Francis believed that it was the former.

"I'm not. I'm just thinking," he insisted.

"Well, if anything ever bothers you, you can come to me for comfort," Arthur reassured.

"I'm not- nothing is- honestly Arthur, I am fine!" Francis exclaimed.

He was stuttering- mon Dieu- and he never did that. Whatever Arthur's plan was, it was working too splendidly for Francis's likings.

"Oh?" He inquired, now placing a hand on his cheek as he glanced Francis over; the look was almost enough to disturb him to the core. "Are you embarrassed because you're not usually around such amazing company?"

Francis was suave, poised, and unruffled, not... whatever this was.

Arthur had no business trying to sort Francis out and yet he was trying, watching him in a way that made everything even worse. At his words, Francis actually colored, grabbing a dishcloth and throwing it at him. "I am taking a shower!" He shouted as he stormed past, face flaming. "Go get dressed or something!" He demanded, escaping Arthur's clutches.

* * *

Arthur was practically waiting for him from the couch once he had left the bathroom. Eyebrows was like a lion preparing to pounce, face lit up by a smug smile.

Whilst in the shower, Francis had spent a good amount of time pondering why Arthur would bother to tease him as he had, but that had only left him more confused to begin with, his thoughts mingling into a mutated form of thinking. First, he had simply considered the idea of Arthur coming onto him (that was defended by the looks he was giving Francis,) but then he wondered if maybe it had been some sort of ploy for revenge; he would have preferred the first.

Maybe Arthur wasn't planning to prod at him again, but nonetheless Francis kept his lips sealed and attempted to return to his normal demeanor. That was, until Arthur spoke (and he was doing too much of that to begin with).

"Hello Francis. Did you have a nice shower? Were you able to stop yourself from missing me too much? I know that you were at least thinking about me."

Francis's expression closed off as he went into a quick and silent panic. Did he know? Really? It might as well have been apparent that he had a crush on the bloody Brit, but how had he figured it out? Arthur was throwing it in his face tastelessly and heartlessly! He could have been much more subtle and he didn't have to be cruel by teasing!

"If you aren't dressed, I'll assume you don't want to come." Francis said steadily, heat creeping onto his face despite all attempts to stop it. If he ignored him, maybe he'd stop. "Either get ready or stay home." He could have bothered to be a little more calloused, but he was giving Arthur a chance to stop.

Turning around, Francis arranged his hair using the mirror he had placed on the dresser. He busied himself with it, finding it easier to focus when he wasn't looking directly at Arthur. He was grateful that the Brit couldn't see the slight sliver of fear that briefly invaded his eyes. Either he knew, or he hit too close for comfort.

"Do you ever tire of seeing that beautiful face in the mirror?" Arthur inspected.

Just as he was beginning to calm down, Arthur shook him up again. He froze. The blush was trying to come back worse than ever and Francis gritted his teeth. This wasn't funny.

"I think you should stop talking." His voice was low and quiet; he shifted his gaze in the mirror so he could see Arthur stand. "You aren't funny. Maybe you should just stay home." He used a biting tone, this time not even hiding the pain. The teasing was going too far; he didn't have to be hurt on top of it.

Arthur was finally leaving his high horse, his voice gentle once he responded. "Maybe I'll stay home."

Arthur was going to drop it, which was good, because he was just about ready to break. That hadn't been kind. He'd been rejected many times in his life, but nothing hurt quite like being mocked.

"Maybe," he agreed. "If you're coming, get ready. If you aren't then tell me what you want and I'll get it."

* * *

Unfortunately, Arthur had come. Once Arthur had finished dressing and returned to the door Francis, too terrible in a mood to talk, had fallen silent and opened the door for the insufferable brat.

He knew his problem here; it was the same problem he always had. He grew attached too easily. He latched onto a person emotionally and never let go, and now he was overreacting and refusing to speak.

They both walked silently through the halls until Francis reached the elevator and pressed the button for the doors to open. Despite how Arthur had treated him, Francis allowed him to enter first.

Francis followed, silence upon them until Arthur decided to (God forbid) break it. One would think that Arthur would have learned his lesson by now, but that was apparently not so.

"Francis, have you ever been..." He trailed off, the rest of his inquiry unsaid.

He wanted to stay silent and not say anything, but Arthur had caught his attention. "Have I what?" Francis repeated, looking at Arthur who, strangely enough, had turned his head away. Capricious Brit didn't know whether he wanted to stare at Francis or ignore him!

"No. Never mind," he responded, turning his head even farther away (if such a feat was even possible).

What followed was a silly tangent of conversation about spilling ink on one's torso. No doubt Arthur had intended to ask something else and, after Francis had explained that it could (most likely) be washed out with rubbing alcohol, he decided to ask the question on his mind.

"Are you still set on keeping your secrets?" He asked quietly, switching the mood abruptly.

There had to be a method to Arthur's madness; he was too bright to be crazy, even if he asked odd questions at odd times (like about ink stains while in an elevator).

"I still have no intentions of telling you at the moment," he replied formally, like a politician.

They made it into the lobby as Francis responded with, "D'accord. Tell me whenever you feel that you can trust me." He tossed another few words in there for good measure. "If you've started to think of telling me, I would appreciate it. You're a riddle. I can't seem to understand you at all, unfortunately."

He wanted to let Arthur know that he could be trusted. Trust was the pinnacle of what Francis treasured most highly; it was the thing that determined whether a relationship was built or destroyed and it was one of his biggest problems.

Arthur didn't speak again until they were outside, most likely for the sake of his privacy.

"I know you'd be able to keep my secret, Francis, but it's personal business—still too personal for you to know, and I just don't feel that I should have to tell someone what they should already know."

Arthur's answer was less than satisfactory. Francis shook his head as they entered the parking lot and began laughing as he unlocked his car.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" He grinned over at Arthur as the doors were unlocked, cheerful demeanor slowly returning. Rejection was an old friend; he would wave hello then move on. "You could write impossible riddles for people to solve. Publish a book of them and torment others as well," he suggested, "though I'm even more confused about 'what they should already know.'"

Arthur entered the car once the doors were unlocked, continuing their conversation once Francis was inside.

"They are not riddles, Francis. If you had some bloody imagination I'm sure this would all come a lot easier to you," whatever that was supposed to mean. "You're always insisting that my hints make no sense when if you just knew the answer I'm sure you would regret saying such things," he chastised. Francis wasn't even going to try to understand that comment.

"Imagination?" Francis noted, a hint of incredulousness and mockery following. How did that help?

Arthur gave him a small, pointed glare, and then continued. "But... if you really want to know something, then I'll clarify, just no more questions, okay?" He asked, receiving a quick nod. "I'm saying that people should already know that the Almighty exists; I shouldn't have to explain it any further than that."

His hint was pathetic, and Francis's dramatic roll of the eyes probably hinted at it. He started the car and began to drive to the store, foregoing questions just as he promised Arthur that he would.

However, he couldn't help but let a sentence slip. "You are the most frustrating person I've ever met," he grumbled as he drove, much to Arthur's visible irritation.

"That's it. I'm not answering any more questions if you're going to continue to insult me like that!" He stated, keeping his eyes planted on the window. "I don't have to tell you anything! Every time I try to bloody explain something to you I get mocked instead. It's not making me want to tell you any faster, now does it?"

Francis exhaled as loudly as he could, his terrible mood returning from this morning. He wanted to get rid of it somehow and, even if Arthur's complaints were justified, almost a week of nothing but his shoddy explanations was finally spilling over.

"You're trying?" Francis laughed, his voice the only thing he could hear, the car muted.

"Trying. Right. You could tell me and yet you won't. You expect me to just behave myself, let you stay with me and say whatever you want without any curiosity whatsoever. How many people do you think would put up with you?" He was bordering on cruel now, but had completely lost his temper at this point.

He continued looking straight ahead, purposely trying to find words to hurt Arthur now. "You are rude, selfish, and I'm tired of hearing you complain about me every few seconds. I chose to trust you, and all I'm hearing is how I shouldn't ask so much of you even though I've never met you before."

They were in the parking lot now, Francis stopping the car to turn it off. The drum of the engine died and now there was only Francis and Arthur, the tension palpable.

It had been a long time since Francis had ever lashed out like that. He was usually capable of monitoring his emotions, making sure that no one ever saw how deeply words could hurt him, but Arthur had already leaned hard on that this morning, and now his patience had finally broken.

Arthur's voice rang resolutely over Francis's buzzing thoughts. He sat with both hands on his lap and he avoided eye contact as he spoke.

"I understand that you're frustrated with me. I don't expect you to be patient with me; you have a right to be at least a little upset with my lack of answers. If you really want to know, I can tell you, and then you can nag at me all you want about how ridiculously rude, selfish, and annoying I am! As I've said before, who'd want to tell you anything when all I get in return is insults? I've tried to give you answers before Francis, and sometimes the only thing a person can do is try."

The words said, he reached out for his door handle, and suddenly this became a lot more than just understanding what Arthur meant. His words both bothered and frightened Francis, enough that his anger lessened enough so he could think about Arthur again.

Panic sparked within Francis and he reached out for Arthur's sleeve, his grip tight enough that Arthur collapsed back into his seat.

Francis averted his emerald gaze, unable to say anything, such as explaining how he felt or apologizing for being rude. It was as if he was a child again, stubborn and frightened and unable to make the words form correctly. He curled his fingers into Arthur's sleeve, eyes hesitantly tracing up to look at him. He was upset, yes, but he didn't want to upset Arthur in return.

A surprisingly studious expression was returned, Arthur's face neither the hate-filled one he had expected nor the deadpan one he was dreading. He simply stared back at Francis with an almost faraway look in his eyes.

Since the words didn't come, Francis let go of his shirt sleeve. The Brit wordlessly exited the car, Francis hesitant to follow. He took a deep breath then attempted to, deciding that he would just have to suck this up and cease his unhappiness, only for Arthur to be the one to open his door.

"I'm not going anywhere Francis," was Arthur's elaborate response. He looked serious and surprisingly older as he stood over Francis and held his door open, but his voice was gentle.

Trust and abandonment, the two things that enjoyed haunting Francis's life the most, were upsetting him intensely today. The relief of knowing that Arthur was not leaving him was enough to make Francis rise and give Arthur an impulsive hug. Arthur's words were what he had needed to hear.

He heard a sharp intake of breath and then a soft exhale as Arthur relaxed against Francis's unexpected touch.

Francis had always been a clingy child to the exasperation of early schoolmates. It seemed a bit of it had carried over into adulthood, yet the lack of contact with people lately made him feel awkward enough to let go very quickly.

"I'm sorry Arthur, I should not have yelled at you like I did. I get angry over the most trivial things, don't I?" Francis questioned. He was feeling lighter now and definitely less uptight.

"It's not trivial at all, Francis. I was actually expecting you to lose patience with me one day or another, and I suppose some would say you're an expert at arguing, but so am I, so naturally this would have become a problem eventually." His words were light but honest.

It seemed their dispute was, for the most part, behind them. Several more words were exchanged between them about the matter, but they were focusing more on lunch. Francis had a feeling that neither of them wanted to think of this argument any longer, and so they moved onto the grocery store.

* * *

Ever since his first argument with Francis, it had become painfully apparent to Arthur that his secret was becoming a big problem.

Francis's questions had gradually become harder to avoid as well. It had been aggravating, really—Arthur had barely survived the first or second week without blurting out the truth to him when questions arose.

His questions had varied drastically and had become more intricate as the days went on. It had started with inquiries about the tree, the second Arthur's family, and then Arthur's living conditions. He had also started to interrogate Arthur on specific things like if Arthur had lived anywhere else before, if he knew how to operate a car, and other things of that ilk.

Already Arthur was feeling the weight of his secret on his shoulders.

The more Francis asked about Arthur the more guarded he became to telling him, feeling that it was his job not to reveal the secret that concealed the reason for his very existence.

He especially didn't want to tell Francis, not knowing the depth of his trustworthiness or how he would react when Arthur told him. How could he trust him not to tell someone else about this secret, this burden? There was no way to ensure that he wouldn't turn him away either, if Arthur decided to reveal the answer that he coveted, no matter how badly Francis insisted.

However, Arthur approached most of Francis's questions without fretting. He had lived in Heaven so long that it hadn't even occurred to him to lie and he didn't want to complicate things further, oftentimes resulting in answers that Francis returned with distasteful expressions.

This also, much to Arthur's disdain, had resulted in being treated like an ignorant old man, coupled with more than several pokes and suggestions that he belonged in the 1800's (he wore clothing like one too, so Francis wasn't exactly wrong).

Despite the trouble, Francis was a venerable roommate.

Arthur was beginning to understand him more and more, even though their arguments seemed to argue that point (no pun intended, twat).

Francis was helpful enough to throw out explanations whenever Arthur didn't understand something. He didn't know where the patience came from, but he thanked God that Francis never got impatient enough to argue with him extensively on the subject of his existence.

Moreover, Francis never displayed any interest in touching Arthur. Of course they had gone through small bouts that called for some physical poking and prodding (and there had been that one hug,) but otherwise handholding was about as far as they had gone to touch each other intimately (or at all, actually).

Arthur spent the majority of his time in Francis's apartment, complaining about his lack of good reading material (because sappy romance novels were not worth the time to read) and spending the other portion of time following Francis through town when he had chores to do.

This new life was relatively relaxing, their useless arguments aside. The only problem standing in Arthur's way- and it was a big one- was the pestering about his existence.

He had to tell Francis eventually, Arthur had concluded one night after Francis had left for work, the same day that they had argued. Francis didn't deserve to be left in the dark forever.

Even homeless people knew more than Arthur did and certainly Francis had already formed hypotheses in his mind about Arthur's guarded secret (he didn't even want to know what Francis thought beyond the homeless gimmick bequeathed unto him).

The real decision came one day when they were walking through the park together, Arthur inquiring about the foliage he had seen, wondering if Francis might take him back so he could look at it. Somehow, both had managed to ignore that no flowers would be blooming in winter; it was far more likely that Francis had agreed because he wanted some fresh air.

It was only their second week together, but by then it had become Arthur's habit to hold Francis's hand, primarily because Francis had never complained when Arthur did so the first time. He made a point to defend to Francis that the handholding was only to ensure that he was safe when crossing the crosswalks, and Francis never seemed to argue against that, even once they had long crossed it.

Arthur cast smiling glances at his surroundings, although most of the flowers were on their way to dying or were already dead and the trees were bare as bone. How ironic it must be that Arthur, an angel, was smiling so much at death... it probably had something to do with knowing that there would be revival. After all, Arthur held out hope that he would eventually see the flowers bloom again, a regrowth, similar to his future return to Heaven.

"What is your favorite flower, mon lapin?" Francis idly inquired as they walked past a flowerbed of wilting petunias.

Lapin? Arthur eyed Francis confusedly, (and slightly apprehensively,) never very approving of the French words that Francis had chosen to nickname him, mainly because most of them didn't make any sense.

Arthur had learned a plethora of information while in Heaven; most of it had accumulated from experience that had resulted in learning a bit of French, amongst other languages, which made it easy for Arthur to translate the "endearments" Francis enjoyed calling him.

Cabbage and bushy brows were already bad, but now Francis had resorted to bunny? There was only so far Arthur could go to tolerate Francis's ridiculous and randomly chosen nicknames before he fought back.

A smirk graced Arthur's lips as he formulated a good response, one that would definitely make up for the suddenly new (and much too adorable) nickname.

"Oh, I don't know which I like best... but something is telling me that you'd pick roses." Arthur mused, grinning now, as Francis looked on with curiosity.

"Oh really? And why would that be?" He queried.

"I know how much the French love their roses- especially the red ones- so naturally that would be your favorite flower, yes? I might like them, but certainly not as much as a frog." Arthur had tested out the frog nickname before and knew the enjoyable impact it left on Francis. Mockery of Francis's nationality proved to be a pet peeve of his as well, so naturally Arthur had combined the two for effective bickering.

That had done it. Francis ran a hand through his hair as he responded, face an odd mixture of amusement and offense. "That is it, Arthur. Once we reach the fountain you are getting thrown into it."

Arthur cast a playful grin at him as they approached said fountain. He trusted that Francis was joking; not even Francis would ever shove him into a fountain... right?

"Really Francis, be logical now. That fountain is too shallow," he defended, letting go of Francis's hand just for precautions.

Francis began to extend his hands towards Arthur as though he was prepared to grab him. "But Arthur, even a small swim is good for you. And maybe while you're taking a swim I, being French, will shower you in rose petals and sing of my undying love of everything in the world. While drinking wine. And wearing a beret. As a mime."

They were nearing the fountain now, Arthur's back facing it as he warded Francis off with his raised hands.

Arthur's enjoyment in the situation was gradually diminishing as he began to consider the possibility of actually being thrown into the water.

Obviously, Francis was playing if he was tossing so much nonsense into his argument, but Arthur's eyes were trained on the hands that were reaching for him, not expecting Francis to get so close if he had only been joking.

A hand reached out to grab onto Arthur's wrists and Arthur turned to yank it away, some foreign fear suddenly gripping him full-force.

There was an ejaculation from Francis- some sort of warning- but it was too late.

Arthur's heel caught on the stone of the fountain and he fell, nearly missing the curved stone in the center. Francis was dragged along as well, his body colliding with Arthur's, both splashing into the pool of water.

Immediately Arthur kicked and screamed, limbs flying out, water blurring the scene. A fist came to club Francis squarely on the jaw, another nearly missing his side.

"Arthur!" He shouted with panic, but Arthur was too frightened to be mollified.

There was so much water- too much, and he couldn't escape it, streams of it pouring over his head, exacerbating Arthur's struggle until Francis's voice penetrated his ears and it occurred to him that oh f*ck, what am I doing?

"Stop! Arthur, listen to me-" Francis was still trying to placate him as he froze- literally froze- in the fountain and then slowly lowered his arms to wrap them around his algid chest. Panting with the effort of his exertions, he dared to spare a glance at Francis, not about to forget what he had just done. Water swished against his legs as he moved slightly away.

"Arthur, why did you do that?" Francis asked, ringlets of his hair flattened against his skull, his eyes darkened with pain (and, no doubt, anger...somewhere).

Arthur stuttered to form a reasonable explanation, casting glances at the water fountain before his eyes returned to Francis. Why had he reacted like that? It must have been the water- he knew that he couldn't swim- but that didn't account for the hitting.

He knew that he had been terrified of something, of some sort of deep fear that he couldn't easily summon for remembrance.

"I..." Arthur paused, a faint memory in the back of his mind, nagging at him to think. Why had this happened? What was he forgetting? There was something from his past...

But he didn't have the time to remember.

"Arthur?" Francis asked again, and when Arthur's attention returned, he still saw that defeated look on his face, a pang hitting his chest.

"I-I'm sorry Francis. I was frightened. I... I can't swim," He stuttered, unable to explain it well enough for Francis to understand.

Francis was rising now, a hand rubbing against the welt on his chin. "You should have told me, mon ami. I would not have touched you like that if you had told me."

Arthur lowered his head to his hands, feeling lost. "I didn't know, Francis. I forgot."

"But you don't just forget-"

As Francis spoke, a sudden memory entered Arthur's thoughts, the intensity of it like a single shaft of light surrounded by nothing but mystery. It exposed some of the memory Arthur had been searching for, but the rest was surrounded by darkness.

"Well I did, Francis! God d-" Arthur cut himself off, his eyes heated with anger once they were raised again.

He had almost damned God.

That realization was staggering. He would never, ever do that again, not even if it was because he had just realized that he'd forgotten how he had died and only knew from that vague feeling in the back of his mind that this was somehow a part of that.

Francis hadn't intentionally angered him; it was all Arthur's fault.

"Look, let's just get out of this fountain," Arthur muttered solemnly, gripping the stone so he could rise to his feet.

The water made everything slippery, but he managed to stand. Once he did, Arthur began to shudder uncontrollably.

"Mon cheri, if something frightens you just tell me. You can tell me anything, after all. I will not judge. And I am sorry that I was not more careful with your feelings."

Francis was already up, now reaching out to rest his hands on Arthur's shivering shoulders.

Slumped against the stone fixture in the middle of the fountain, Arthur cast his gloomy, defeated eyes back to Francis. Water gushed from the fountain and pitter-pattered around them as Arthur collected the courage to react.

He was so bloody tired of hiding and expecting Francis to understand. He was tired of giving answers that never seemed to be enough for him, and now he felt like a cornered animal who had gotten itself into a trap that could have been avoided from the beginning.

Francis was waiting- God thank him for his patience- and his eyes told Arthur exactly what he had been searching for: it was okay. He could tell Francis. Whatever Arthur had to say, he was willing to listen (not so much understand, Arthur thought ruefully, but at this point Francis probably thought that he was competent enough to comprehend the truth).

It was hard to let go, hard to reveal this secret in fear of what would happen. But he trusted Francis.

"Okay," Arthur responded softly, reaching out for him.

* * *

It was after dinner that same day, and Arthur was already on the couch with a book when Francis exited the bedroom dressed in his work clothing. The outfit consisted of a boring dress shirt and black jeans, always with some sort of jacket that only served to make him sweat as he worked.

"Okay Arthur, I am off to work now," Francis announced, a ritual that had become common. He had already said it several times before- not often enough to be daily but Francis generally worked at least three days a week.

Arthur's head rose from behind the Sherlock Holmes novel he had persuaded Francis to buy and nodded his head in confirmation.

"All right..." He conceded, the hesitation clear in his voice.

Francis was fortunate to have a companion who always showed every modicum of emotion in everything he did; it definitely made it easier to interact with him.

As he neared the door, Francis turned to watch Arthur again. "Are you sure there is nothing else you want to tell me?" He inquired.

He wouldn't hold his hopes up and expect Arthur to tell him the Oh Great Secret he had been waiting to hear since the beginning, but he hoped that Arthur's words would still be valuable.

Arthur squirmed around until he was comfortable- a silly habit Francis rather enjoyed seeing- and then spoke.

"I'm very grateful for what you said earlier, Francis. About understanding. And I honestly don't think that my reaction was any fault of your own. If it hadn't been for today, I might never have realized..." he trailed off then, which was not a big surprise since, once Francis began to understand things, Arthur always stopped before he understood enough (but never once did he voice complaints to the Brit; every time he did Arthur was ready to bite his head off).

"Then you are welcome, mon ami. And I will forgive you for hitting me—this time." Next time things would not go over so smoothly. Arthur had already gotten away with one hit- a hit to the face, in fact- and it was only because that one had been a mistake that Francis would forgive it.

Francis stroked the spot in question, already swollen from the hit he took. Served him right for practically scaring Arthur into the water fountain. At least he was not suffering alone, knowing that Arthur was also sore from the fall he had taken (and the extra damage Francis had caused by falling on top of him).

Francis left for work then, slaving away for the several terrible hours of his life that he would never get back.

What Francis had neglected to explain to Arthur was that loud- usually pop- music played through the speakers all night and, on top of that, the facility had been fitted with strobe lights to ensure that every employee working there would suffer somehow.

Coworkers were there to lessen the suffering with their jokes but Francis was usually the only one to complain vocally. He didn't enjoy the looks he got either and more often than not avoided the prettier women who beckoned him over so they could repeat their orders to him in sugary voices.

The flirting repulsed him and only served to remind him of a time before he had realized how shameful it was for him to talk to those women just to make himself feel more important and wanted. A past experience had made sure that Francis would never make the same mistake again.

Yet today Francis was actually happy at work—at least, happier than he usually was here, even with the welt on his chin.

The promise made with Arthur in the water fountain seemed to have helped Francis pave some ground with him; if Arthur's words and actions were anything to go by, then Francis was sure that Arthur would prove to be more open in the future.

With this in mind, Francis went through the rest of his shift impatiently; the fresh bruises Arthur had given him were beginning to hurt.

However, today it didn't take much pushing to put a smile on his face the way his boss had taught him as a method of luring in customers.

Francis managed to convince his boss to let him go home early, (using his bruises as an excuse to get some rest,) which pleased Francis enough that he wasn't grumbling to himself as he unlocked the door to his apartment and entered, so tired that he had neglected to acknowledge that the lights were already on.

On the nights that Francis worked, he insisted that Arthur take the bed. On nights that Francis didn't work, they alternated between sleeping on the bed and couch, which was why Francis was very surprised to see Arthur on the couch instead of the bed.

Of course Arthur had to be awake the one night Francis felt fully prepared to fall asleep due to exhaustion.

"Arthur?" Francis asked, perplexed, as he entered the room.

Arthur seemed almost half-asleep, head lazily placed on the armrest of the couch, a book slipping between his fingers. Apparently, he hadn't even realized that Francis had entered the apartment.

Francis quickly treasured the adorably cute look on Arthur's face before realization came to ruin it.

"Oh, Francis!" Arthur exclaimed, the book dropping to the floor. He turned and began to pick it up, raising to a sitting position. "You're early," he noted.

Nodding his head, Francis turned to close and lock the door behind him. "Oui, but... why are you awake? You should be sleeping," he opined. Sleeping and not keeping moi up, you uncontrollable Brit.

Arthur raised a hand and gestured Francis towards the seat beside him. "Come sit down. I have something I need to tell you."

The urgency in his voice surprised Francis and, with a curious expression, he followed Arthur's advice and approached the couch, seating himself beside Arthur. Maybe his complaints could wait.

"What is it, cheri? What do you want to tell me?" Francis inquired as steadily as he could, attempting to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

He probably should not keep his hopes up, but he had told Arthur earlier today that he could be trusted. Did that mean that Arthur was going to tell him the secret that he had been waiting to hear?

Francis had struggled with Arthur's comments so much that, once they had reached this point, he had already searched for anything that would make more sense to him than the ridiculous snippets of information Arthur gave him. If this next comment could clear up at least one of his confusions then it was worth hearing.

Suddenly Arthur looked very serious, the tired look gone from his face. "Francis, if I tell you this, you can't tell anyone else. Do you promise that?" He asked.

"Naturally, Arthur." It wasn't as if Francis knew anyone worth telling anyways.

However, Arthur still seemed to portray a new kind of hesitation that was unfamiliar to Francis. Sure mon cher frowned sometimes, but his hesitation was bordering on anxiety.

"I promise that I will not tell anyone, Arthur. Your secret is safe with me," Francis reassured again. "Remember? You can tell me anything."

To that, Arthur's shoulders relaxed slightly, although there was still a visible tenseness about him.

"...You remember earlier, at the fountain?" He inquired, to which Francis responded with a brisk nod. "Well, I was frustrated because that was when I realized that I couldn't remember how I had died."

Maybe Francis wasn't listening correctly. The subject still making no sense to Francis, he listened silently as Arthur continued his explanation.

"See, and that's because I'm..." he paused, eyes turning to watch Francis squarely as he spoke. "I am- or used to be- an angel. I have died and gone to Heaven before."

Not exactly what Francis had expected in ways of confessions.

Wait, what was Francis thinking? He hadn't expected this at all! Out of all the explanations he had imagined, being an angel had never been one. Not even in a joking sense.

Francis's expression turned serious now, intent on hearing the real truth.

"But Arthur, that is- it's-" each word dropped from his mouth like a heavy stone, but the remaining weight still prevented him from forming a complete sentence.

Arthur's face looked nothing like the bragging one Francis might have worn if he were telling this to someone. Instead, he frowned sullenly, shocking Francis into silence.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Francis. Those scars on my back, my ignorance. From the beginning I was being honest with you."

He spoke so delicately that the vigor of his argument was lost in the gentle lull of Arthur's words.

An angel? Arthur, an angel? Meaning that Francis had been housing an angel in his apartment for more than two weeks now, and that every time Arthur had hesitated to tell him something or had gone into a tangent of muttering to himself on how to respond to a question it had been because of this?

If what Arthur was saying were true, then his clothing had come from Heaven, as well as his sandals, and that he really had fallen into that tree.

Even if things were beginning to make sense, however, Francis was hesitant to believe that he was actually speaking to an ex-angel; after all, angels had never been seen before, only written about; they physically weren't supposed to exist. Moreover, the Bible had never said anything about this. It was definitely difficult to believe the words coming from Arthur's mouth, no matter how sincere they sounded.

"How is this possible? Why are you here?" Francis inquired confusedly, an eyebrow arched. He must be delirious.

Arthur was fiddling with the cover of his book, averting Francis's gaze. "My life wasn't complete enough. Something was missing, so they sent me back down. And apparently it is possible, Francis, because it happened to me."

This was all becoming very unpleasant business and he didn't know what to think. There wasn't a trace of a lie in Arthur's eyes, just a desperate honesty. Whether or not it was true, it was true to him. Francis struggled to understand, wanting to so badly. The strangest thing was that he wanted to believe him. It was crazy, insane, and there was the possibility that Arthur was both of those things, but Francis was willing to consider Arthur's words.

A silence fell, Francis still looking at Arthur as though he was a lunatic.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" He asked as softly as he could, painfully breaking the silence. Maybe if he had known earlier then he never would have started to assume things.

Arthur caught Francis's eyes again, this time with a disapproving grimace on his lips. "Because I knew you wouldn't believe me, you dolt! Should I have just upright confessed to you the night I got here and expected you not to peg me as a lunatic? We both know what would have happened if I did that."

The retort was stinging but justified.

"And I didn't even have any intentions to tell you today until you told me I could trust you. Tell me you weren't lying. You told me-"

"I know what I said, cher, and I mean every bit of it," Francis rapidly interrupted before Arthur jumped to conclusions.

Arthur paused to stare at him, emerald eyes studying him silently. There was something unnerving about that gaze, the silence profuse and almost tangible.

"...Do you mean to say that you believe me? That you won't tell anyone?" He inquired, voice still hushed.

Francis shifted- curse Arthur for making it his habit too- and then ran a delicate hand through his hair. He couldn't promise very much at the moment but he hoped that that would change as he learned more about this.

"I do not know if I believe you but I know that you are not joking. At least you do not have to worry about your secret, because I promised to keep it, and I intend to keep that promise."

Arthur's whole body exhaled—that was the only way to explain the relief that passed over him.

Francis reached out to place a consoling hand over Arthur's and, upon the contact, his eyes raised, resting on Francis again.

"I should let you think for a while. I'm sure this is a lot to take in and that's why I wanted to tell you at night: so you could sleep after I told you and think it over."

That was a very clever thing to do since it deterred Francis from acting strangely the rest of the day, but Francis highly doubted that he would be getting much sleep tonight either.

He nodded his head, fingers curling around Arthur's hand but the Brit seemingly unwilling to be so quick to be comforted.

"Then take the bed ami," Francis smoothly responded.

"No, I don't want to," Arthur responded, coughing softly afterwards.

It seemed as though Arthur had made up his mind—if he wanted to be defiant and stay on the couch then fine (although it was secretly understandable since both deserved some time alone).

"Then I will let you sleep on the couch." Francis ceded easily, too exhausted to argue.

Beginning to rise, Francis slipped his hand from Arthur's and reached out to ruffle his hair instead. His violet eyes glanced down at Arthur and he smiled graciously.

"Get some sleep, mon ami. We can talk about this tomorrow when I have more energy—if you're willing. I will be able to talk more about this once I have slept some." After all, at this point Francis was so tired that he was having difficulty thinking straight. Already being told the secret was quite enough for Francis to know for a while but, if Arthur were willing, he'd pry further tomorrow, once he was better-rested.

After he saw Arthur's confirming nod, Francis turned and eagerly retreated to his bedroom. So much had happened today and now he needed time to let his exhausted mind think.

* * *

That night, Francis lay awake and stared at the ceiling as he mulled over everything Arthur had told him.

Maybe if he hadn't been so quick to insist that Arthur tell him then this wouldn't be happening, but now that Arthur had there was no taking the words back. Remembering that look of melancholy on Arthur's face only made the guilt worse as well.

Francis should not have pushed as much. He should have been more careful to thank Arthur for trusting him, even if Arthur's truth was extremely ludicrous.

Yet it was strange that Francis wanted to believe the other and believe that he had been telling the truth, however crazy his explanation was. Fitting so perfectly, it was difficult to deny, and Arthur had certainly seemed hurried to make sure that Francis didn't argue with the truth—or, at least, his version of it.

Francis had turned and buried his face in his pillow, pushing the thoughts away. However, he was sure that as the sun rose he still hadn't gotten more than small intervals of sleep.


	6. The Fever

_This is a terrible way to begin the day_ , Arthur thought as he stared at the window in the living room that opened out to a large view of the gray city beyond.

The noise had never been too much trouble for Arthur, but now it was extremely annoying.

His coughs, especially, made the volume ten times worse, mixing with the traffic outside to create a dreadful noise that intensified Arthur's headache.

Francis was sleeping in after Arthur's confession last night and Arthur had woken up early with a growing fever, resulting in an impatient Brit who could not go back to sleep and yet didn't have the energy to rise and ask Francis for help. Even if he did manage to stand, he couldn't imagine himself as being capable of walking all the way to Francis's room without collapsing.

Arthur was only growing more upset the longer he had to wait for Francis to come in and realize that he had been sitting in the same positon for over an hour, fending off vicious coughing fits.

He turned over and (eventually) began to sleep again, too exhausted and sick to continue to fight himself. He had lowered his head onto the arm of the couch, one hand dangling unattended from its edge.

Just as he was drifting into a deeper sleep, Arthur felt a hand threading through his hair, pulling the strands back. Gently a cold palm was pressed against Arthur's forehead, startling him into awareness again.

His eyes shot open, Francis's crouched form immediately entering his line of sight. He swore that he could feel his heart beat through its ribcage as he studied the Frog.

He was looking directly at Arthur, his hair slightly ruffled, and wearing glasses, indicating he had probably just woken up.

 _Francis wears glasses?_

Warily, Arthur reached up to feel his own forehead, Francis wise enough to move his hand out of the way.

"..., Arthur?" Francis was asking, resulting in a squinted response from Arthur. _What_?

"Francis, I have a fever," Arthur whispered softly, scraping the sweat from his neck. He was heating up again, but couldn't exactly take off his clothing to cool off (not that he would even if he wanted to— Francis would probably take it the wrong way).

"I'll help you to my bed, _mon cher_ ," Francis replied with a gentle sigh.

He then rose again, reaching over to move the blanket that had covered Arthur's legs.

Arthur began to rise but a cough barred him from doing so completely. A hand was extended to him and Francis helped him to his feet, his face now conveying more concern than discontent.

Francis's cool hand soothed Arthur, although it would have been of more assistance if it were pressed against his melting face.

"Really _mon cheri,_ you should have told me that you were getting sick last night," Francis lightly scolded as he helped Arthur to his bedroom, Arthur half-slumped against him, occupying himself with pressing a sleeve against his mouth to stifle the coughing.

He hadn't known that he would be so bloody sick until his coughs woke him up!

Neglecting to speak with Francis, Arthur lay himself down to rest instead, even considering pressing his head against a pillow.

Francis, however, was saying something, and Arthur wouldn't be able to hear him if his ears were covered. "Arthur, what can I do for you? What do you need?" He asked.

Arthur tried to pause mid-cough to respond but instead ended up coughing even more. "I—hough- Please-" A small chain of hacking followed and a groan ended it.

Francis was waiting patiently and when Arthur _finally_ amassed the breath to speak properly, he said, "Are you having too much bloody trouble deciphering that for yourself?" He snapped, frustrated (although more with the coughing).

Francis was briefly stunned by Arthur's retort (at least, Arthur guessed so by the look on his face), but then rose again and left the room to retrieve God-knows-what for Arthur's fever.

Arthur rolled over the blankets in the bed, pushing them off then pulling them back. It started to become an ongoing struggle with them, but Francis (thank goodness) had returned before anything too violent had happened (like falling off the bed, which Arthur seemed to be accomplishing well enough without the bloody blankets in his way).

He returned with a glass of water (but no glasses, unfortunately; they had looked cute on him—not that the Frog himself was cute, make no mistake!) and seated himself on the edge of the bed, extending the drink to Arthur as he pushed the blankets away.

" _Je suis désolé, mon lapin malade_. The fountain is probably what got you sick. Even if we hadn't fallen in it, though, the flu is still floating around. It's quite possible that you would have gotten it anyways."

He was saying it again, the unbelievable _mon lapin_ business that Arthur didn't like, but there were more important things on his mind than the intention of stopping Francis from giving him cute nicknames.

"Sit up _s'il vous plaît_ and drink this. I've mixed some medicine into it for you, so drink all of it."

He held the glass out for Arthur before he was ready, only beginning to raise himself from his elbows into a full sitting position.

Once he was completely ready, Arthur reached out for the glass and began to drink its contents. Arthur was pleased that the drink didn't taste bad, making it easy for him to gulp it down quickly.

Francis accepted the glass once it was empty, Arthur already turning to cover a cough.

"You poor thing. It has been a while since you've been sick, non?" Francis inquired softly, beginning to rise once more.

Arthur reclined onto the pile of pillows that were rested against the mantle of the bed. "Try over a century Francis," he advised.

He groaned unhappily as Francis lapsed into silence, which did not surprise him. How must it feel to know that your companion has died and gone to Heaven before? Arthur imagined that the feeling wasn't pleasant. There were probably even more questions whirring in Francis's mind since Arthur's confessions yesterday, but it was unlikely that any of them would be answered soon.

Arthur wasn't prepared to answer questions of any kind. It was time to focus on getting better, unfortunately for Francis. Maybe if his headache had the fortune of going down a bit, then he would have enough of his thought process back to answer questions thoroughly.

"Francis," Arthur voiced in a defeated sigh, "thank you for the medicine." At least he could convey his gratitude to Francis through thanks, although he couldn't manage much more than that, and he didn't want to waste the energy.

" _Oui_. It is nothing, _mon cheri_. Now, I will go get you some water, okay? Don't go anywhere," he said with a taunting grin, exiting the room again to the fetch _more_ water.

Arthur waited patiently, his coughs returning to fight him until Francis came back. _At least this isn't going to kill me_ , he thought, although it was getting pretty damn close.

He took a sip of the water and then leaned back again, eyes closing from exhaustion but the flu _definitely_ not allowing him the complete rest he needed.

Francis clicked his tongue and reached out to run a hand through Arthur's hair. Maybe on a normal occasion it wouldn't be _that_ annoying, but today the touching was just piling onto the already overwhelming headache, the receptors in Arthur's mind handling enough without being touched at all.

He shoved the hand away and turned over, burying his face in a pillow. He groaned and whined, but the flu still didn't cease in its intensity.

"Do you need anything else?" Francis asked softly, although why he couldn't just _not_ act like Arthur's mother was a mystery to him.

"I don't think anything else could help this," Arthur mumbled, turning his head slightly to the side so he could cast a glance at Francis.

Francis lowered his hand to rest on Arthur's shoulder. "Do you want me to go?" He asked.

There wasn't much of a point in staying with Arthur since he would just get Francis coughed all over, but Arthur _did_ secretly consider keeping Francis for some company. He didn't want to fight this alone; it would have been more enjoyable if he wasn't the only one suffering here (after all, Arthur would have loved to see Francis suffer too).

However, even if Francis had already had a fever, it most likely wouldn't be polite to keep him here just so Arthur could toss his germs onto him, resulting in Arthur's decision to reject the company.

"No, you don't have to stay. There's not much you could do here anyways," Arthur responded, swiping a hand across his forehead.

Francis nodded his head and reached down to press a quick kiss to Arthur's forehead. Arthur tried to slap him away, but he was too fast.

" _Bien, mon cher_. Get better. If you need me, just call for me and I will come."

With that he fled the room, leaving Arthur to his flu.

Full of dread, Arthur watched as the door closed, and then turned over in his bed to cover himself in blankets, figuratively trying to escape his illness.

Francis didn't come back for a full hour, and during that time Arthur had already tossed and turned everywhere in Francis's bed. The blankets were torn off and then pulled back on again until Arthur had given up and buried his head in the blankets, leaving his torso and legs to deal with the constant temperature changes.

Light was a constant problem as well. Even though it was winter and the curtains were down, some light still managed to establish a bright square on the corner of Francis's bed (apparently Francis hadn't closed the window well enough).

When Arthur got cold he would roll into the light, but then it would heat up his body so badly that he had to escape it again.

He began a cycle of hiding underneath blankets and then uncovering them, which was tedious but seemed to do the job. Arthur had managed to fall asleep between cycles when Francis returned, gently creaking the door open so he could peek into the bedroom.

" _Mon lapin_? How are you feeling?" He inquired, entering and sitting at Arthur's bedside.

"It definitely feels like things are getting worse," Arthur replied, a hand raised to scratch through his hair.

Francis clicked his tongue, looking concerned, which was ludicrous. He would be fine! "I'm sorry," he commented, pouting. "Hopefully you will recover quickly."

Sure Arthur would—hopefully. It would be even better if the mysterious magic that had subdued his burning wounds before would return now to vanquish this horrible fever.

"Francis, I know I'm ill right now, so it's not the best time to talk, but I also know that you have questions from this morning and I'm willing to answer some if you want to ask them."

His eyebrows were raised, exposing violet irises. Was it really that surprising? If Francis asked the right questions, this might even be amusing enough to shake Arthur out of the sickness funk he found himself in. The possibility of a distraction was worth the trouble of the suggestion.

"Well go ahead, ask," Arthur insisted, waiting for the first question.

Francis seemed hesitant but, with a reassuring smile, he was content enough to ask his questions.

"When did you die, _mon cheri_?" He inquired.

"1839. Victoria had just become Queen. I was living in my house in London," Arthur informed, although he didn't know much beyond that (what? His death had happened over a century ago!).

He covered his mouth from a cough as Francis asked another question. "Then how old are you?" He continued.

That really wasn't a difficult one; maybe Arthur was destined for disappointment. "I am physically twenty-three, but I am almost two centuries old since my birth in 1816," he responded almost boredly.

He didn't know why the words came so easily, but to him they didn't even sound odd; he was just realizing, in fact, that what he was saying was exceptionally abnormal when he saw Francis's face. What? There had been plenty of other angels that had even more impressive years under their belts!

" _Mon dieu_ ," Francis muttered, pondering the weight of Arthur's words.

Arthur ought to do the same. He was the only one capable of saying that he had died almost two centuries ago and yet here he was saying it like it didn't even matter.

Another cough came and Arthur could feel himself heating up, so he took a gulp of water and shifted to a cooler portion of the bed.

"What was your life like... before?" He inquired softly.

Finally Arthur could give an answer that he felt was worth the explanation. He leaned towards the pillow pressed against his back and gazed at the ceiling as he responded. "I lived in London since childhood. I grew up with three older brothers, a mother, and a father. I was actually the first to die out of all of them. Even though I could be a handful and I was even grumpier than I am now, I was still a gentleman.

"At twenty-one I purchased a small, two-story house. I lived there and started working at a local newspaper until my death, hence the reason I complain so much about your books. They're lacking in the eyes of an avid reader." He hadn't even owned anything classic until Arthur came along.

The complaint of poor reading material within Francis's apartment was overused, but Arthur still cast Francis a pointed glance, indicating that he still intended to complain about it.

Naturally, Francis either took no notice or didn't seem bothered by the look Arthur gave him.

Francis wasn't thick— _oh no_ , he just liked to peeve Arthur sometimes, although it was justified considering how often Arthur ignored him in return.

" _Merci, mon ami_. Could I ask one more question? It will not take much time," He explained tenderly, a hand reaching out to feel Arthur's forehead.

Arthur's reflexes told him to slap the hand away, but he somehow managed to refrain. Surprisingly, he didn't protest to the touch; in fact, he stayed silent and maybe- _maybe_ \- leaned forward a bit.

"Go ahead," he permitted.

"You said that you realized that the water was part of your death. Does that mean you remember how you died?" He inquired.

Immediately Arthur shook his head. "No. I only remember that water was somehow a part of it. I don't remember anything else," he informed. He barely remembered what it had been like when he had first met Alfred, now that he thought about it.

There had been a very large book- Alfred's book- and there had been a pedestal and questions, but his death evaded him.

Francis nodded his head, a hiatus following as he said nothing and Arthur briefly allowed himself to wonder what his friends and family were doing in Heaven. Did they remember how he had died? Had he told them at all? Alfred probably remembered, oh yes, but...

"I believe your fever is going down, but I'm not sure. Let us hope that you will get better soon, oui?" Francis inquired gently.

Arthur coughed lightly and then asked, "Are you leaving again? You don't have any more questions?"

" _Non_ ," Francis replied. "I think that I have learned enough for the moment."

He was a little disappointed that Francis didn't have more to ask, but then again Francis was probably more concerned about Arthur's health than he was about uncovering answers to his curiosities. Moreover, not all of what Arthur was saying could be pleasant. Maybe Francis didn't want to take them in spades.

* * *

Throughout the rest of the day, Francis came by periodically to check on Arthur's health. Arthur generally slept well, except for the few times he returned to whining about his fever, making the rest of Francis's day easy.

Francis didn't leave the apartment, knowing that Arthur would complain if left alone whilst sick, instead investing time in thinking about Arthur and also doing what reading he could without getting distracted (Arthur still didn't think Francis himself could read one of his romance novels all the way through, but Francis was going to prove him wrong).

He began dinner at eight o'clock, deciding on the chocolate croissants Arthur adored and a serving of soup that was (obviously) ideal for a sick person.

He tied his hair back and washed his hands, then set to humming as he picked out ingredients from the refrigerator and pantry, multitasking like he usually did to get everything on the table by nine. He'd begin with the croissants and then take a break to chop some vegetables for the soup.

The croissants were almost finished and the soup was still cooking when Arthur made an unexpected appearance at the dining room table.

"Arthur? You should be sleeping!" Francis scolded when had turned just in time to see Arthur seat himself.

"I'm feeling better, Francis," Arthur replied tersely, "so I figured that I would come out and have dinner with you."

Such a persistent Brit, even when ill. Francis questioned why he would bother getting up if he still had a fever, because Francis definitely would not have wasted the time. He could have just brought dinner to his bed—Arthur didn't have to waste the time to come out and fetch it himself!

"Well, you are here now," Francis noted with a sigh, completing his own thoughts. "Please, stay while I prepare dinner. It should be done soon."

He didn't hear a peep from Arthur as he perfected the soup and took the finished croissants out of the oven. In fact, Arthur looked more close to sleeping from boredom than he did to whining about a fever.

He reached out for the croissants the first chance he was given, humming softly as he took a bite out of one.

"Thank you Francis," Arthur expressed with gratitude as he brought his bowl of soup closer as well.

Hm. Arthur sure was in a cheery mood, wasn't he? Even if he was on the verge of pouring hot soup all over his lap. Arthur even picked a spoon up as he handled the croissant in his left hand.

Leaning over, Francis adjusted the bowl in front of Arthur and took the spoon out of his hand.

"Table manners, _mon cher petit_ ," he idly scolded as he returned to his seat, placing the spoon beside his soup.

Arthur scoffed whilst chewing on his croissant. If he kept this up, he was going to choke on his own stupidity.

"I need the extra nutrients Francis; after all, I _am_ still technically sick. But if you would like to resume the role of British Gentleman in this apartment, please do go ahead."

Francis's face twisted with disgust. He didn't approve of being addressed as a gentleman even if he did frequently open doors for Arthur and treat him with respect. Of course Arthur would rather insult him than thank him for saving his life!

Francis hadn't lived out his childhood as a rascal just to be called a gentleman when he was older.

"Non Arthur, I would prefer to continue being French, _merci beaucoup_."

Arthur's croissant was gone now, but instead of reaching for a spoon, Arthur gazed back at Francis.

"Well, you don't have to be a _British_ gentleman; you could just be a normal one if you'd prefer," he offered.

"I am no gentleman, but thank you for the offer," Francis replied bitterly.

He caught sight of Arthur's grin, but somehow managed to cast it aside and instead focus on dinner. Arthur fell silent too, returning to his soup without comment (although he was still smiling a little more than necessary).

The only thing worth noting through the rest of dinner was Arthur's lack of coughing. He might have let out a short cough once or twice but it was nothing compared to the hacking from earlier.

"Are you going to work today?" Arthur inquired as they finished dinner and moved onto their after-dinner routine of washing dishes, which similarly to the bed, Arthur and Francis swapped roles of each day.

"Non. I already spoke to my boss about it and he decided to excuse me from working today so I could take care of you," he replied.

Arthur felt new to him after his confession yesterday; he seemed like a smarter (yet also more ignorant) human being, and Francis didn't exactly have full trust of him. He wanted to rebuild and incorporate new pieces of information about Arthur into his knowledge of him, if only to ensure that Arthur could be trusted.

One of the best ways to do that would be to spend all possible time he could with Arthur, beginning with making sure that Arthur recovered quickly so they could discuss Arthur's past sooner.

Francis could see that Arthur was smiling at his comment as he washed the dishes. It was probably wonderful to know that Francis cared enough to skip work for him, although Francis would usually find any excuse possible to get out of work.

"Are you tired enough for bed yet?" Francis questioned.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. "I've been sleeping a good majority of the day Francis. I'm not in the mood to go to bed again."

That sounded reasonable. Since Francis was used to staying up late hours, maybe this was a good chance to familiarize Arthur with some of the things he had missed through the years... or centuries.

"Then would you like to watch a movie with me?"

Arthur arched his eyebrows, which was always amusing to watch considering their thickness, and then cautiously nodded his head. "Sure I will, if you explain what a movie is."

" _Bien sûr_ , Arthur. Movies are a kind of entertainment that you watch on a screen. They are available on television and at movie theatres. Come to the couch and I can find one for us to watch," he insisted, gesturing for Arthur to follow.

Discarding the last of the dishes for later, Francis led Arthur to the couch and sat himself down.

The TV was already on and Francis was clicking through all the cartoons and infomercials to reach the movie section. There were several more up-to-date movies listed but Arthur probably wouldn't like those.

The cursor of Francis's remote passed over several other movies before it rested on a classic that Arthur might actually like. Granted the movie was made in the 1900's, it was still better than twenty-first century movies.

"Have you ever heard of _Les Misérables_ , Arthur?" Francis queried.

Prompted by the shake of his head, Francis selected the movie and placed the remote on the coffee table.

" _Voila,_ _mon cheri_ : a movie," he introduced as it began, rising to turn off unnecessary lights to enhance the resemblance of a real movie theater.

Arthur cast glances at Francis from the couch, watching him until his eyes returned to the movie and Francis came to join his shadowed figure on the couch.

Arthur expressed a stronger interest in the movie than Francis first anticipated. He hung onto the storyline from the beginning to the middle. However, once the plot passed the midway point, Arthur was either losing interest or falling asleep.

Once the movie reached a quiet scene, Arthur had the chance to fall asleep, something Francis would soon discover when he felt a weight on his shoulder.

Francis had to take another glance to ensure that this was real. He must have been quite lucky if he had the fortune of seeing Arthur when he was in such a state of adorability (and so close, too!)

The rest of the movie could be finished later.

Francis was very cautious when moving Arthur, mainly because Francis didn't want him to wake up and struggle once Francis reached out to carry him.

He was as limp as a sack of potatoes (although hopefully Arthur would never figure that out,) so Francis had no problem moving him as he wished, first resting Arthur's head against a cushion.

Francis then rose and lifted him into his arms, fending off the warm grin that filled his face. _Tellement adorable_ , he mused, as he carried Arthur through the apartment to his bed and then lay him down to rest.

Naturally Francis could not help but press a soft kiss between the eyebrows on Arthur's head, even if he wasn't very fond of caterpillars (and there was _always_ the possibility that one might come to bite him).


	7. Progress

Two more weeks passed, and those days following Arthur's illness were peaceful but without the repetition normal people might familiarize themselves with.

Arthur and Francis were (dare he say it) growing closer. Each had let their guards down a little more, in part because Arthur frequently goaded Francis to be more open (after all, if he couldn't trust an angel, whom could he trust?) and because Francis, in turn, had convinced Arthur to do the same.

Although Arthur was finicky about touching, he had lent an exception to Francis. It was the morning following the movie when Arthur had realized that, since he distinctly remembered falling asleep to _Les Misérables_ but woke up in bed, Francis must have carried him all the way there. After that, Arthur was more lenient to invasions of space, primarily if the invasion was minor.

He remained picky and stuffy and gentlemanly, but he had also become more accustomed to Francis and his teasing.

Now he was going to socialize with someone outside the normal parameters of Just Francis.

"Are you sure that you want to go, _mon lapin_?" Francis inquired to Arthur as he began to tie his shoes, Arthur seated beside him and fixing his tie, preparing to go to lunch.

"If I don't go then how will I ever learn to socialize with other people?" He retorted, yanking at his tie with a little more force than was required.

This had all started because Francis had mentioned Arthur to his coworkers and, as a result, one of them had proposed that Francis bring Arthur to lunch for a double date (a term that Francis had had to explain to him and only made Arthur more averse to going).

With some more thought, however, Arthur had decided that he wanted to go.

"You have a point, _mon cheri_ , and I am sure that Dylan and Angelique will be very happy to meet you," Francis replied, then brushing strands of hair back as he lifted his head again.

Angelique was Dylan's girlfriend and Dylan was the one who worked with Francis at the "night establishment." Francis had nothing but positive things to say about both people, so hopefully Arthur could take his word for it and assume that they were nice folks.

"So," Francis voiced through a sigh, "Are you ready to go?"

Already dressed, Arthur was definitely ready (and in under half the time it usually took Francis to prepare, he noted).

"Yes; let's go," Arthur conceded, and then followed Francis as he rose and led him out of his apartment to the hall beyond.

He was in a cheery mood, humming as he locked the door and followed Arthur down the hallway.

"I don't understand one thing, Francis."

"Oui?" He responded as he strolled down the hallway, casting a glance at Arthur.

"If I am to understand things correctly you said that this was a 'double date,' right? But we aren't dating," Arthur stated. He didn't want there to be any misconceptions between Angelique and Dylan about the current state of their relationship. If they were going to a double date then he wanted it to be clear that he and Francis were only friends.

"Non, we are not—although if you would like to I would not argue against it," Francis mused.

 _Ugh, no_. For all the picking Francis centered on his lack of romantic nuance, he didn't need to become _more_ attached to the bugger only for the teasing to intensify.

Moreover, Arthur wasn't attracted to Francis in _that_ way—at least, he liked to _think_ so. Okay, so _maybe_ there was a sliver of interest, but it wasn't strong enough to compel him to _date_ Francis.

"Pft, of course you wouldn't," he replied, casting the subject aside. Surprisingly, Francis didn't revive it for conversation again.

Afterwards, Francis and Arthur left the apartment complex and drove to their rendezvous without a hitch, and without much talking either.

Ever since Arthur had told Francis about his secret, he seemed more distant. He had explained to Arthur that he wasn't the same homeless person that Francis had pegged him as anymore; he was an angel, which made Francis feel unimportant. He had asked Arthur why hadn't left or done something more decisive than lingering with Francis for as long as he had. That had hit hard, since Arthur had had no plans from the beginning, and he had no intentions of leaving Francis either; it didn't look like this information brought much relief to Francis, but surely it had put some of his worries at ease... right?

"We are here," Francis then announced, and Arthur brought himself out of his reverie to glance at the stores lining the sidewalk.

"Which building is it?" He inquired, to which Francis pointed it out, a small French café on the corner.

Arthur eagerly began to open the door to get out, wanting to escape the awkwardness that the silence between him and Francis had created.

Francis generously reached over to unbuckle Arthur's seatbelt so he wouldn't be stuck, but unfortunately, this only made things worse for him.

The seatbelt suddenly freed, Arthur began to veer towards hitting the curb of the sidewalk, a hand reaching back to search for something to grip onto to prevent the fall. He felt the soft curve of Francis's fingers and gripped them, yanking at them to save him.

" _Sacrebleu_!" Francis hissed, leaning over to drag Arthur back into the car. He practically had to crawl onto Arthur's half of the seat to help him back into it, resulting in them each sharing one portion of Arthur's seat.

"Usually when one exits a car they do so feet first. Not head first," Francis advised with an amused grin that forced a wide smile out of Arthur as well.

"I'm still getting used to cars, Francis. You know this," Arthur replied, gingerly stretching his legs out on the sidewalk in front of him.

Stepping out, Francis followed, holding Arthur by the elbow so he wouldn't fall again.

"Oui, but please still consider being more careful next time, _mon cher_ ," Francis hummed back as they walked towards the café.

The falling incident behind them, Arthur followed Francis inside, the fresh scent of food beckoning him to order something to sate the roaring hunger he had.

"There he is," Francis stated, gesturing to a window nearby.

He turned his eyes towards the window and observed the two patrons already seated there. The man- assumedly Dylan- had a smile on his face as he spoke with his girlfriend Angelique, who had curly blond hair and very straight posture.

"Angelique is shy," Francis muttered softly.

Ah, then she was probably uneasy. Arthur was a little shy too, so maybe he could understand.

They then walked over to the other couple, Francis gesturing for Arthur to enter the booth first. He did so, waving at Dylan and Angelique as he sat himself down next to the window.

"Bonjour Dylan and Angelique, I am sorry if we were a little late," Francis introduced as he sat down beside him.

"No, it's fine. I take it you're Arthur?" Dylan inquired, turning to him.

"Aye. It's nice to meet you two," he introduced and reached out for handshakes from Dylan and Angelique.

Lunch passed by quickly, Francis and Dylan taking up the majority of conversation whilst Arthur and Angelique were less frequent with making comments or conversing amongst each other.

Arthur had blatantly told Francis before that he was not very sociable, but the Frog didn't seem to have believed him. Especially with Angelique, Arthur didn't feel very inclined to go onwards with useless idle talk.

However, he did so anyways. Once turning Angelique onto conversation about her work- Angelique apparently being very passionate about the aquarium facility she worked at- Arthur no longer needed to worry about filling in the gap of time between ordering their lunch and waiting for it to come.

Angelique had been talking about fish and coral for _at least_ five minutes when she finally said something that began a new conversational topic.

"We try to stick to only marine life that lives off the coast of the UK. Even if the selection is diverse, however, there are still some native species that we don't have," Angelique explained.

"Actually," Dylan interjected, "Angie's work wants to promote her and have her work at an aquarium in Canada."

Francis tilted his head to the side, turning to Angelique. "Is that so? That's wonderful, Angelique. Do you plan to accept the job?" He inquired.

"Yes. They have whales there that they would like me to supervise. I'm excited to work there," she replied mildly.

"I plan to go with her," Dylan informed, and Arthur could immediately feel Francis still beside him, indicating to him that he wasn't pleased about this.

"...Is that so?" Francis inquired.

"We have to go, Francis. I have family in Canada and I don't want Angie to go alone," Dylan replied.

Arthur searched for any sign of emotion on Francis's face, but he couldn't catch the right angle to see it. _Just lean back, you bloody—_

"Then I'm happy for you," Francis replied, voice even.

Dylan reached over for Angelique's hand, his eyes unwavering. "I'm sorry that I'm leaving, but I have to do this. You'll still have Arthur, won't you?" He pointed out.

But Arthur wasn't... He tried to keep the disgust off his face and cast a glance at Francis to confirm that he wasn't looking over to survey Arthur's reaction. He was still sensitive on the subject of their relationship, but he didn't plan to hurt Francis's ego more by stating that they weren't actually dating.

Francis wasn't saying anything, so Arthur took a shot at cheering him up. "I'm definitely not going anywhere."

"...Oui. I am glad for you Dylan," Francis replied, and then fell back into silence as their lunches were brought over.

Afterwards, Francis reverted to his social self, although Arthur couldn't help but wonder what he thought of all this. Leaving was never easy, especially if it was a friend who would never be seen again.

Fortunately (or maybe _un_ fortunately), Arthur was soon met with a new distraction, although the subject was one that he would have avoided (at all costs) if he had had the chance to know that it would be brought up.

"So, Arthur, how is your relationship with Francis coming along?" Dylan questioned once he was finished eating. Arthur was already done as well; although he usually ate slowly, something as light as the tuna sandwich he had was very easy to chew through.

"Well... the bugger can be annoying sometimes, that's for sure, and he picks on me all the time but I really couldn't ask for a better roommate," he hesitantly replied, deciding on just being blunt. Francis understood him in a way that no one else ever would, and that was undeniable.

"Francis! You didn't tell me that you were already sharing an apartment with him!" Dylan exclaimed. "How far have you gone?" He questioned discreetly, probably more out of curiosity than an intent to pry.

"What?" Arthur blurted out, placing his hands on the table and pushing back. He shot a glance at Francis, who seemed to be as uncomfortable as he was. "We aren't actually dating. We're only friends." He could feel heat crawling upwards to his cheeks but tried to suppress it.

"Oh?" Dylan inquired, and cast a look towards Francis. "Uh-huh..." He pondered, Angelique the one to stop his insisting.

"I'm sorry... Dylan can be so pushy sometimes," she muttered, nudging him with her elbow.

"Non, it is okay. It's an assumption anyone can make," Francis excused, rising to his feet.

" _Merci Beaucoup_ for inviting us for lunch. Hopefully we can do it again before you move?" He suggested.

"I would like that," Angelique replied.

Afterwards, several more _avoir_ s were exchanged and then both Francis and Arthur had escaped the Jaws of their relationship's Reality.

That evening, Francis did everything available to him to be annoying.

Arthur bent down and looked through his side of the drawers for something to wear as Francis stood nearby, leaning just close enough for his legs to get in the way. He glanced down at Arthur's messy hair, idly pondering whether those poor strands could ever be combed.

"Be careful in the shower, mon cher. If you slip and fall who knows what damage you would to yourself," he hummed as Arthur continued to search through the dresser.

"Of course I'll be cautious; after all, I wouldn't want you to fret over my safety! Just don't forget that I'm still young, Francis. If I fall I can get back up," he responded, folding a shirt against his arm and reaching out for a pair of sweatpants.

"My heart would be broken if something were to happen to you, _mon cher_ ," Francis replied, but quickly interjected with, "but I must still worry. When were you born again?" He requested.

"1839-"

"See? That makes you almost 200 years old. You are quite lively for your age, great great great grand-pere," he teased, "but an accident could still happen."

Arthur's face twisted into something like a grimace, but Francis couldn't decipher it completely. He remained silent but huffed, by now probably very used to being teased about his age.

He rose to leave for the bathroom but before he did, Francis hopped directly into his way and ruffled his hair.

"Bloody-"

Arthur made a disgruntled noise and then slapped Francis's hand away, making a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Amused, Francis snorted and then left for the kitchen to prepare dinner, although not before blowing a kiss at Arthur, one that he almost didn't notice.

Arthur was fun; he was nice and good-natured without being a pushover. Moreover, he fought back, which was enjoyable because then Francis could argue back while still being sure that (for the most part) he wasn't hurting Eyebrows.

Francis started cooking an easy dinner, slipping in time to take clothing down to the laundromat for cleaning. He cleaned the bed as well, replacing old bedsheets with fresh ones.

As he began to exit the bedroom, the door to the bathroom suddenly opened, making Francis halt in his tracks and get out of the way.

He saw Arthur's face peeking over the door at him and, for a moment, he was sure that he was considering closing the door on his face. However, Arthur stepped out instead, voicing the obvious.

"I'm done with my shower," he informed.

"Congratulations." He smirked at Arthur, but a once-over prevented him from saying anything other than the blunt "Are you wearing my clothes?" That left his mouth.

Arthur's face flared with color, and he crossed his arms, offended. "I'm using them as pajamas!" He exclaimed.

Really, he got himself into fits over the silliest things. " _Très bien, mon cher_ , but you could have at least blow dried your hair," Francis replied indifferently, although he could not stop from grinning at Arthur.

"I like my hair wet like this, thank you, and I don't know what 'blow dry' means," Arthur replied, then self-consciously combing his fingers through his hair as he began to walk to the kitchen, Francis following closely (so closely, in fact, that he barely missed stepping on Arthur's ankles).

He turned around to glare at Francis for stalking him, but Francis simply returned the look with an amiable smile. "But of course. I should have remembered, but sometimes you act so normal that I forget that everything is new to you."

With that backhanded comment, Francis crossed the kitchen and retrieved the dinner he had made, giving Arthur a plate. He had cooked pasta tonight and had even went through the trouble of preparing an appetizer (although in all honesty it wasn't trouble at all; he _insisted_ on making it).

"Not _everything_ is new," Arthur defended as he picked at his dinner, head bowed.

As Francis made his way to his seat, he reached out and ruffled Arthur's still-wet tresses. "You're ancient, don't forget," he advised.

Seating himself, Francis took note of the lack of retort from Arthur. His head still bowed and his cheeks pinking, he had turned his attention onto fussing with his dinner. "Why are you so irritated, Arthur?" Francis inquired, even if this was the worst time to ask a question like that.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur retorted innocently.

"I'm talking about you turning red every time I speak, and how you continue to be so defensive when I'm merely talking to you."

"I have a perfectly logical reason," Arthur stated, straightening in his seat. "When someone follows me around and makes it an asset to invade my personal space I believe I have a right to be a little... _unsettled_."

"You have had no problem holding my hand in public on several occasions," Francis reminded. "How on earth is this any different? I'm not walking around _kissing_ you; I merely touched your hair a moment ago. Why is that unsettling?" Now he was curious. Arthur was stoic to some gestures but then extremely embarrassed by others, which made him unpredictable.

"Because," Arthur began, glaring at Francis, "you're putting implications in my mind where they don't belong. It's almost like you're flirting with me."

Immediately Francis was near choking on his dinner. "What?" He ejaculated, pushing his dinner away. "I'm not implying anything," he defended (not that it wasn't a terrible idea). "I'm just teasing you. If I were trying to win your affections, I would go about it in a different way than annoying you every five minutes."

This was nothing like how Francis would treat _un amant_ ; he was much gentler in that regard. Not wanting to tread into anything vulnerable or too serious, he resorted to joking instead. "Unless it's working?" He asked with a raised eyebrow, trying not to chortle.

Surely Arthur would know that he was joking... hopefully. If Francis really wanted to try earning his affection, he'd be sweeter and a lot less imposing. This was just a good way to avoid having to handle any conversation that was too serious. Why be honest when one could joke his way through things instead? In addition, it felt more rewarding to get a blush out of Arthur than a frown (the frown _always_ inevitable when talking about serious things).

Ah, but Arthur was frowning anyways. His face was red now and he stood to push his chair back. "This- You're-" He stuttered, but still nothing comprehensible came out.

Why was Arthur so embarrassed? It was just a misunderstanding, right? Francis felt guilty for allowing Arthur to assume things for who-knows-how-long. Apparently, this subject made Arthur so uncomfortable that he couldn't even form a sentence about it.

"I am sorry, Arthur. I did not mean to pick so much," He apologized, rising as Arthur began to retreat.

He paused before reaching the door to Francis's bedroom, turning to look back at Francis. He was still blushing, which was adorable, but spoke seriously.

"It's... it's okay. Just stop picking so much!"

Afterwards, Arthur had escaped behind the door of Francis's bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

The words pacified Francis's worries that he might have pushed too much, although he still worried about how badly his picking affected Arthur.

Dishes were put up, and Francis used the rest of his time to run downstairs to finish washing clothes. By the time this was over with, he had to get ready. His clothes for tonight were still in his room, so he'd have to bother Arthur.

Two hours after dinner, Francis quietly slipped into the room in case he was sleeping.

He was very quiet, practically tiptoeing through his own bedroom. Arthur's form lay perfectly still on one side of the bed, so Francis left him alone as he shifted through his drawers for his waiter's outfit. There was a light groan, and then Francis heard Arthur shifting in bed, the sound of sheets being tossed aside.

"Francis?" He whispered, accent thick and drowsy.

A light was switched on and Francis froze, his hands still in the dresser's drawers as if he was some sort of criminal breaking into his own bedroom... how embarrassing.

" _Je_ _desoleѐ_ Arthur. I just came in here to get something," he replied in a hushed tone.

Bathed in light, Arthur tiredly rubbed his eyes and yawned. "You're going to work?" He inquired, a hand running through his tousled locks.

"Yes. I'll be back late, but I won't come back in here again, so no need to worry about any advances. Sleep well, oui?" Francis inquired, pulling his clothing out of the drawers.

"Okay," he mumbled back, slouching back against the pillows, probably too tired to pay enough attention to hear Francis's joke. He was still rubbing his eyes, hands curled around too-long sleeves.

It was unresistable. Francis approached him and placed an adoring kiss on his forehead before he left. "Goodnight," he hummed, before he left and closed the door behind him. Either he was growing deaf or he hadn't heard any complaints from Arthur... how odd.

A month went by without considerable notice.

Francis, unfazed by their relationship's unsteady foundation or his friend's decision to move away, had lapsed into his usual personality, and Arthur remained as reliable as he had from the beginning (although he was still vulnerable to Francis's teasing).

Contently, Arthur had sat himself beside Francis and resorted to reading as Francis scrolled through something on his laptop.

"What are you doing?" Arthur inquired.

"Hm. Just looking through job offerings, _mon cher_. If you are going to stay here long-term, then I must admit that my current funds will not be enough to accommodate the both of us."

Francis had mentioned money several times before and every time Arthur opted to trail onto a different subject matter. However, this was still something that they had to consider seriously.

In Arthur's opinion, it was unfair that Francis had to search for a better job, but Arthur couldn't work because he lacked the documentation and general understanding of how the modern world operated.

"So how is money right now?" Arthur proceeded.

"I have actually started digging into my savings account," Francis informed, going on when Arthur's perplexed expression didn't lessen. "I was saving money to return to France, but since taking money from my savings I cannot afford the trip now."

One could only wonder why Francis intended to go back home. Sometimes Francis told Arthur stories about his aunt and family there but he never looked nostalgic enough to want to move back.

However, Arthur knew that the British and the French don't like each other. Currently he and Francis were living in Bristol; although it wasn't London, it was still a city in England populous enough to contain prejudice. Perhaps racism was enough to make Francis want to move back.

"Goodness Francis, I apologize for that. Did you plan on moving back to France?" He probed.

"Oui, but I have changed my mind since then. I might visit, but I am probably not going to move back to France any time soon."

That was odd. Usually if one planned to move, he wouldn't be so willing to take money from the trip nor would he seem so nonchalantly willing to drop plans to go altogether.

"Francis, are you really okay with not going?" Arthur questioned.

"Yes Arthur, it is fine. Anyways, now that she is-"

"Who?" Arthur interjected as quickly as he could; the mention of a "she" in conversation with Francis was worth the curious interruption.

Francis stiffened, which was as unexpected as the sun at night. He hadn't froze like that since dinner with Dylan. He was very good at concealing unwanted emotions like blushing or shouting, making him more capable of sealing away his true reactions to Arthur's comments. Arthur had found this aspect of Francis fun to toy with, although beneath the enjoyment lay a real concern for the Frenchman's ability to portray his feelings.

Arthur noticed that he lacked the vigor he had described himself as having as a child and surely an outgoing man like Francis should have more friends than he did. Maybe this woman who made Francis stiffen so visibly had something to do with Francis's odd behavior?

All of these thoughts whizzed through Arthur's mind as he gazed at Francis with awe.

"Francis, I'm sorry; maybe I shouldn't have asked," he amended, although he didn't resume his reading but instead watched Francis for a response.

" _Non, il est bien_ Arthur. I will tell you. If I do not now then I might never," he replied, closing his laptop and storing it on the coffee table. All of Francis's attention then turned onto Arthur, who eagerly closed his book and settled himself for a story.

"Mind you it is a pitiful little sob story, but if you want to listen to how ridiculous my problems are, fine." He paused, trying to think of how to start.

"I suppose it just seems like everyone in my life leaves at one time or another. My parents took no interest in me after I reached a certain age. Well, Maman did, but my father never actually wanted a child in the first place, so... But everything actually turned out wonderfully for me; Janine has the softest heart of any woman in the world. She sees me as her own, and I suppose that is what matters.

"I was a bit different as a child. The past year or so I suppose I've grown up. I was still a brat; I teased too much, especially people I liked. But I was more combative, more snobbish, and far more flirtatious." He rubbed his forehead. "Which led me down to trouble. I should have known better."

They were getting to the touchy part; Arthur could tell by the straining on Francis's face.

"I lived in Paris almost all my life, and when I was twenty-two I was just about to graduate a University. I was pursuing a career in the culinary arts. Then I got myself in trouble. I thought I was in love." He laughed, but Arthur could hear the pain in it.

"To be fair, I truly thought I was. Despite what everyone thought, I didn't just go after everyone with a pulse. She lived here. Not in Bristol, but outside the city. Her family moved to France, but she liked it here better. She wanted to go back. She had a career waiting here for her, and it was her dream. We had been dating for a few months and she had no one else to turn to. I helped her financially and she said she would pay me back if I came out with her. Putting my dreams off for a year didn't sound so terrible to me so I agreed."

He was speaking uncensored now, almost speaking to himself. "We moved closer to the middle of the city than this. We were there for three months. Then she said it was done."

Francis closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "She wanted to go back to her family's open arms. To avoid keeping her promise, she denied having said what she did; she even denied ever going out with me. And look where I am, a little over a year later?" He chuckled, although the sound was more chilling than joyful.

"I'm here. She left. I couldn't believe it. I'm not angry I'm just... I don't understand what I did wrong." He smiled, running his hands through his hair.

Arthur fell silent as he watched Francis for any signs of despair. He seemed more chagrin now, yes, but at least he didn't look close to crying (not that crying was a bad thing—if he needed to cry, Arthur certainly wasn't one to judge).

Dylan was just like this, then. An abandoning of sorts, although not as painful as this one.

Arthur extended a hand and soon found himself consoling Francis. "That's terrible Francis. Surely her rejection has hurt you quite a bit," he noted.

"I am okay now, Arthur. It does not upset me so much anymore."

Sure Francis said that, but Arthur didn't believe a word. He wouldn't have tensed so strongly if he was over it.

"Well, perhaps I am lucky that you had still decided to hang around Bristol once she left. If you hadn't, Heaven knows who would have found me," Arthur mused.

" _Je suppose_ you could put it that way," Francis replied, attempting to relax his shoulders.

"I am. I owe all of this to you," Arthur responded, making a gesture amassing the whole apartment. "Don't even try to be modest and say that everything you've done for me is nothing."

If Francis did that then Arthur would definitely take offense. Francis's willingness to trust Arthur and remain loyal to him was important to Arthur; never would he want it to become something as meaningless as "it's just nothing."

"But mon lapin, I only let you in in the first place because I never thought that you would stay," Francis quietly confessed.

But Francis had changed, hadn't he? The baguette muncher had opened himself up to Arthur and that was why he knew that Francis now planned to remain with him.

"You don't still feel that way, do you?" Arthur asked, resulting in a headshake of refusal. "Then it doesn't matter. I forgive that."

Francis's face brightened out of relief and he smiled, putting Arthur at ease as well.

" _Merci mon chou_ , you can be very complimentive when you try. For that I will let you ask me anything."

Somehow, Francis's response didn't sound like a compliment. However, Arthur could ignore Francis's poor choice of words for the more important offer he had just been given.

Immediately he knew which question he wanted to ask first. "What did Aunt Janine think about this incident?"

Francis shrugged his shoulders. " _Je ne sais pas_. Janine seemed upset that I would ever date her from the beginning but she never told me directly that she didn't approve. She probably never said anything because she wanted me to be happy," Francis explained.

Francis's aunt probably had the same maternal instincts that a mother would have, and so she would have been able to tell from the beginning if Francis's girlfriend was right for him or not. She probably refrained from saying anything harmful to Francis because she would never want to see Francis hurt—anyways, he had to learn for himself not to always trust strangers (even beautiful feminine ones).

"You are fortunate to have her Francis," Arthur replied. "I would love to meet her and Uncle Pierre someday."

"I will have to introduce you to her then. That's a start, anyways. _Mon tante_ would probably like you."

"I would like that. If I wanted to visit France though, then I would need citizenship, and I don't have that. Could I ask you about getting me documentation?"

Francis reached out for his laptop and started it up again. "That... Is going to be a problem. I have a residence visa, but as you were dead, you don't have anything. Not that you could waltz into a government building with a birth certificate from the 1800's in the first place. We will have to look into that process for you later, but if I may, _mon cher_ , while I have the laptop out maybe you should look at apartment listings with me as well."

To that, Arthur gave Francis an eyebrow raise. "Why? I thought you were just going to get a better job," he replied.

"I might not find one, _mon chou_ , and that is why we must look at cheaper-priced apartments as well, in case I am not hired somewhere else. On the good side, I have enough money in my savings to last through another month or so."

As Francis spoke, he typed quickly on his laptop, searching through the internet for a way to get documentation for Arthur.

"On the bad side, it will probably take years for you to get your paperwork figured out. You may have to pretend to be the homeless person I thought you were from the beginning to even get a chance at citizenship."

That didn't hurt his pride that badly because it was the truth and that was better than nothing was (but it still would have been more convenient if he could have his citizenship now).

"We can look into it more later. Right now I want to see if my house still exists," Arthur stated.

With a nod of his head, Francis began to search Arthur's house instead. "Do you remember the address?" He asked.

Arthur had lived there for less than three years, so unfortunately he did not. "It was in Central London, I remember that much..." He went onto a tangent of muttering street names to himself before one arose.

"Oh! I think I remember now," Arthur informed and told Francis the street name, once again trying to describe the features of his house to him.

Francis turned the screen around so Arthur could see what results he found. "Whatever is there now will show on the screen," he informed.

The screen loaded, and then the image of a house appeared on it. Arthur was exalted. Not only was the house still there, but it resembled the old one, too. The shape was still the same, although the house looked newer—it had probably been painted and remodeled since his death.

"The place is still intact! The curtains are closed though and it doesn't look very lively..." Not that it had been when Arthur was alive either.

Francis leaned over so he could see as well, examining Arthur's old home with a studious eye. "Oui. It looks quiet... there's no toys or even a car around."

Arthur glanced back at the screen as Francis did. He wasn't sure what to think... his belongings had been there. Had they been taken away, or were they still there? He pursed his lips as he thought, simply watching for something else to appear on the screen when he knew that it wouldn't change.

"It's... nice." Arthur simply commented.

He didn't want to get lost in thought; it hurt. He didn't understand how—he had been separated from his home for over a century, so why did he still feel nostalgic when looking at it like this? He couldn't even remember half the useless memories he had in the place, so how could he even miss it?

"Would you like to run up to London for the weekend?" Francis suggested.

His head immediately turned to Francis. "Really? You'd do that for me?" He asked, unable to help himself. "Oh Francis, I would love to!" He exclaimed.

"I have enough money for the trip if you want to visit a night," Francis offered, "and I would, of course, go with you."

It was like a mini-vacation away from the repetition of each day here in Bristol.

"Then we could go Saturday Francis," Arthur stated eagerly. Saturday was just three days away; they could go then and shake off all these worries about finances.

"That sounds best. We can start packing tomorrow," Francis sanctioned, reaching out for a slip of paper so he could write down the address to Arthur's house. Arthur wasn't worried about finding the place, but as confusing as London was it wasn't a bad idea to write the place's location down.

"We will have to find a place to stay for the night too," Francis reminded as he brought his laptop closer and began to search through nearby hotel listings.

The Frog was losing his attention, so Arthur began to rise and spent his time searching through the closet for suitcases. Two would probably do it; Arthur was a sparse packer and Francis (he suspected) could downsize on his provisions if he needed to.

 _My house... I'm going to see it again_. This was like consolidation that he had come from another time and that everything he had seen and done in Heaven was _real_. He was back now and he was going to visit a shard of his past.

"Come over, Arthur," Francis called, and Arthur dropped what he was doing to return to his seat.

"What do you think of this hotel?" He inquired, turning the screen to Arthur. Everything just looked like a bunch of bloody pixels to him, but what did he know?

Arthur squinted at it, deciphering the image as a photo of the front of the building. He didn't know what good the outside of it would do, but it _looked_ pleasant.

"It looks fine Francis," Arthur replied, patting him lightly on the shoulder. "I'm not interested in those things. You can figure it out," he insisted.

Pouting, Francis continued to scroll through pictures. "Such an ancient thing like you will never learn how to use the internet if you don't even show an interest in it," He grumbled.

That was not at all true, but for Arthur it was (that was _not_ a contradiction). He didn't have an interest in the internet, so he would not bother to learn how to use it, even if he would have to eventually. He'd procrastinate and learn how to use it only when he _had_ to.

"I'm still fairly new to this world Francis, don't forget that. There will be plenty of time to learn how to operate a laptop once we've finished packing," He insisted, luring Francis away from forcing him to use it.

He rose and closed the top of the laptop, scoffing at Arthur's resolve. "Okay Arthur, then I will let you remain as ignorant as you want. We should get packing, oui?" He suggested.

The following hour was focused on packing and preparation, Arthur always thinking in the back of his mind how exciting it would be when he got to see his house again.


	8. The Fire

Arthur was surprised by how little he had moved the next day. He spent most of it bickering with Francis about what his house would be like whilst he slouched on the couch, a book hanging between his hands.

Unfortunately, the majority of Francis's warnings went unheeded. It was already blatantly obvious to Arthur that whatever he was expecting his house to be like was far from what it had been like in the past.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner all came and went (and Arthur didn't go out once!). He was almost disappointed at how dull today felt, resigning himself to the couch early after dinner had been eaten (the dish had been amazingly good, which might have accounted for his lack of complaint that evening as he waited for Francis's hour of preparation for work to end).

"I have to go to work now, Arthur," Francis called as he returned, flourishing his hair over his shoulder.

Trailing a hand against his neck, Arthur nodded to him, practically tossing his book onto the coffee table. "Okay," he said through a lazy sigh.

Something was... off... but he couldn't explain why or how. He just felt very strange as a chilling feeling suddenly crept over him.

Now, this was entirely ludicrous, and there was no reason for it- seriously, Francis would be fine- but Arthur didn't want him to go. He wanted Francis to stay and sleep in the bed or couch—it didn't matter as long as he didn't go to bloody work.

If Francis went to work, then he would be grumpy and would need sleep for the trip to London later that day (it wouldn't help that a grumpy Francis was more likely to be argumentative). They had already packed two days' worth of clothing for tomorrow, but there would still be more packing to do before they left. There wouldn't be enough time to nap and pack clothing if they wanted to get to London in the same day—or so Arthur wanted to think. Everything would be easier if Francis just stayed home.

"What Arthur? Don't want me to go?" Francis inquired with a smirk. He was standing at the door, waiting for Arthur to send him off in a cheerful tone (even though that would never happen).

What would Francis think if Arthur told him about his strong sensation of unease? The Frog would think that he was crazy, obviously. He couldn't let Francis think that.

"...Mmm, I certainly don't want to stop you from going. After all, you'd only succeed at bothering me if you stayed."

Francis had stopped at the threshold to stare at Arthur with a curious shine in his eyes. Drat the dolt for reading through him so easily!

"If you really think so then I would _love_ to stay and bother you for a while," he mused with a grin.

This frustrated Arthur more than he had anticipated. "Just go to work already!" He grumbled, reaching to raise his book towards Francis.

"Okay! Mon dieu, Arthur! I would have expected you to be a little more forgiving," Francis mumbled pitifully, then slipped through the door.

* * *

Francis entered the back of the building and immediately cringed at the light that assaulted his eyes. By now he should have gotten used to it, but there was still something about the atmosphere that made it impossible to relax. At least he wasn't in the throng of the mess yet but was instead in the back, where he could only hear the throb of music playing on the floor beyond.

Why had he ever considered bringing Arthur here? Dylan and the other co-workers were nice, yes, but there was no telling how Arthur would react to the atmosphere of the place nor the people. No doubt at least one argument with a stranger would be inevitable.

"Francis, perfect timing," Ethan, Francis's boss, stated as he grabbed at his arm and dragged him through another door farther towards the back. For a man about the same age as Francis, it was strange how authoritative he could be.

"You need to cover James's shift; he's not coming today," he informed, handing Francis a silver tray full of pink martinis.

Immediately Francis was thrown into his work, dropping off and picking up drinks from tables. On some days, customers would complain that he was working too slowlywhen all he could say in response was, "I am sorry, I will try to tend to your order quicker next time." It was their fault for being indecisive and, instead of ordering something, blatantly staring at him (on some occasions anyways—he was very handsome, after all).

Today was one of those days. Francis tried his best to forge patience out of this experience but sometimes a trickle of a bad mood still managed to enter his work environment.

He went through the first half of his shift impatiently, eager for the break he would get soon. Francis's eyes were always on his watch (although very discreetly—if Ethan caught him checking it he would get scolded), waiting until it was time for his break.

When it was, he quickly cast his trays aside and sighed, threading a hand through his hair. There was just the other half to worry about now.

He started five-minute break, (which was not _even_ a break,) leaning against one of the walls in the break room as he started up a conversation with Dylan. The talks were always endearing, Francis usually being the one who checked the clock to ensure that they didn't talk for too long lest Ethan catch them and give them a goof scolding.

"So you're going to London to check out a house? Jeez Francis, either both of you are good liars or your relationship is more messed up than I thought," Dylan joked.

"Like I said, we aren't going to buy the house; we are just looking at it. Arthur desperately wants to see it but he doesn't have the transportation to go alone," he defended.

"If you say so," Dylan conceded, although he still looked doubtful, sneaking an arched eyebrow at him.

Francis was preparing to open his mouth for a retort when Ethan approached him, the smile he had been building immediately falling. Ethan didn't socialize—the only reason he ever came into the break room was to tell employees to get off their arses and to go back to work.

"Francis, more chairs need to be moved onto the floor. Get to it," he ordered, Francis tempted to just fling his head back and whine like when he was a child. The threat of being fired was the unspoken threat that kept his mouth shut.

After fetching the chairs from the back, he brought them with him onto the floor, nudging strangers out of his way as he found a place to set them. Music blared from the speakers and scattered bodies- some painted in glitter- were everywhere.

Francis tried to ignore it all as he began to put the chairs down, but a shout- where it came from he wasn't sure- caught his attention.

"Fire!" Someone shouted out front, forcing Francis to look up from the stack of chairs. Before he could react, there was a horrific crash and screams echoed through the huge building. Since the facility where Francis worked was actually a large warehouse, it was difficult to see across the mass of strangers to the stage at the front. All he knew was that there was a fire and that it was somewhere in the building.

A cacophony of noise followed the shout, consolidating that there _was_ a fire. There were, no doubt, people hurt, and there were employees in the back that would need help.

Francis dropped what he was doing. He had to get out of here, but the closest exits were all being crowded by fearful strangers desperate to flee from this place. He sped past shelves of electronic things he hadn't a name for and found Ethan shutting off the main power to the building, the doors opening to the back of the warehouse right behind sprinklers and alarms weren't working.

Ethan's eyes rose and saw Francis; immediately he gestured for Francis to go. Francis, however, shook his head. "You go, I'll get them and go out the back," he called to him. Ethan nodded and continued flipping switches, the lights inside turning off.

Unfortunately, a place that served literally every kind of alcohol was a time bomb. Most of it was back here. Ethan was smart; he would close the heavy metal doors behind Francis before escaping.

Past those metal doors would be Dylan and Riley, but also the alcohol that he hoped the fire wouldn't reach. Once Francis went through them, he would have to hope that there was a way to escape.

Francis left Ethan to the power and ran through the doors, literally running directly into Dylan through his frenzied attempts to reach the other employees in the back.

"Can't find Riley," He told Francis. "Anyone else back here?"

Not that he knew of. It had only been them back here only minutes ago. Francis shook his head. "Ethan is going out the side door. He'll probably shut the fire doors. I didn't see anyone else," he informed, joining Dylan in the search for the other male.

Within the next three minutes if felt like hours had gone by. The had two found Riley shivering in the corner after searching every crevice they could find. He was intact, _grâce à Dieu_ , although the freckled intern looked scared out of his wits.

It was getting hotter; smoke began filling the back room, creeping ominously towards the trio. Riley, in shock, wasn't capable of lifting himself off the floor. They had no time. Francis hauled the kid to his feet, practically dragging him through aisles and towards the doors. Smoke reached them and they drew up their shirts over the lower part of their faces as they continued down the halls. It was becoming more difficult to navigate them, their eyes near watering and the heat intensifying. Riley was actually crying, shuttering uncontrollably. Silent, he hadn't spoken a word yet.

Francis and Dylan each stood on a side of him, shielding him from the worst of the fire. Dylan pointed behind them; a glow had entered the room—the fire was upon them.

And then it happened.

Francis could hear a roaring, a shattering. The sprinklers had come on but it wasn't helping, drenching the crew in water but not putting out the fire. It had reacted to one of the boxes of spirits, though how the fire got into it was a mystery—Ethan had closed the doors behind Francis, hadn't he?

Smoke began to blind the group, and the heat began to intensify. Francis continued to follow Dylan best he could through the confusion, but his state only got worse as they continued. Why was Dylan taking them towards the blaze?

Riley began to panic as Dylan shouted, trying to be heard over Francis's swimming thoughts. He strengthened his hold on Riley's arm as he tried to make sense of Dylan's voice.

"-dow! –indow!" Dylan continued to shout, until Francis understood that he was screaming "Window!" over the roaring blaze.

Suddenly, during this short moment of clarity, Riley broke free of Francis and slammed him into the side of a metal shelf. The surface was hot and, in the two seconds he made contact with it, it burned through his clothing, scorching his shirt. Francis pulled himself away from it, grabbing Riley's arm as Dylan stubbornly dragged him over to the office. It was locked. Dylan was doing... something... but Francis's mind was centered on the crawling blaze as he tried to keep Riley demure.

This was it. They couldn't open the office to get to the window. He and his coworkers were done, and pity took his heart at the thought of them both. At least he had no one to leave behind, and Arthur seemed to think that heaven was...

Oh, _Dieu_. Francis snapped out of his daze at the realization that he _did_ have someone who not only wanted him back but also _needed_ him. Francis had to get home. Still gripping Riley, he suddenly realized that Dylan had broken one of the sides of the door, enough to dislodge it on one side so that they could break through. Dylan went first, pulling Riley with him. Francis followed, the splintered wood scratching at his hair and face, although he never felt it. He was numb, going into shock.

But Arthur. The single word bounced through his mind, as if searching for a way out. Arthur would wait for him. He would be waiting forever if Francis never returned and, even worse, no one would know that he existed. If Francis died here then Arthur would have to be told that his friend had died at work on a day that he had almost skipped. He couldn't let _mon chou_ hear those words. He had to live.

He helped Dylan shoulder a fallen pillar of wood out of the way and then followed him again until they hit wall. Glass glinted sharply at them, a reflection of the fire staring at them. They tossed whatever they could get their hands on to break the glass, and then Dylan, the first to climb out, extended a hand to pull Riley away from the maws of death.

Francis followed, not daring to spare even a glance at the inferno that had almost eaten them alive.

The sounds of furiously swirling heat were replaced by blaring sirens and the fading sound of women sobbing and men shouting. Cool air attacked his face and Francis almost wanted to collapse in relief. His adrenaline was fading fast, however and, before he knew it, he could feel his suppressed wounds burning and stinging against his skin.

Dylan pointed a wound out to him. "Francis... your back..." he spoke between pants as he rested Riley against a tree, emergency personnel already coming to survey their wounds.

Gloved hands grabbed at Francis and hauled him to his feet. His mind felt like a blur of static where there should have been coherency. He struggled to stand and even more to breathe as the smoke he had inhaled swirled in his lungs, making him cough.

"Arthur," he managed to mumble in a raspy throat, Dylan's stricken face the last thing he saw before he allowed the paramedics to take him away for treatment.

He was taken to lie down in an ambulance, the sirens a sound of never-ending terror in his ears. His back burned at the simplest movement, and the instant he had been moved onto a bed he screamed, the pain unbearable. It felt as though the fire had followed him, tearing at his back once he was told to lie down.

A paramedic's voice shouted over him, calling for assistance as Francis's vision began to darken. He struggled feebly against the medical staff until he was finally forced to rest.

* * *

For some inexplicable reason, Arthur had woken up at five in the morning.

Out of nowhere, his eyes had opened, almost like he had woken up from a bad dream, but as far as he knew he hadn't been dreaming. It was a very odd sensation, and Arthur found himself unable to properly fall asleep afterwards. It was just like this at dinner too!

He sat up and sighed exhaustedly, running his fingers through his disheveled hair.

Was Francis home yet? A glance at the digital clock beside the bed confirmed that he had to be. It was two hours past his returning time of three, so he was here.

Arthur rose and carefully stepped through the dark room to the living room. Everything was bathed in whimsical shadows cast by the lights outside and Arthur could hear the traffic: it felt like the noise never died.

He knew that Francis would probably whine if he turned the lights on, but he wanted to see him and didn't mind if Francis complained a bit. At least he was here.

He entered the living room and turned the lights on, only to immediately discover that the couch was empty.

"Francis?" Arthur inquired, receiving no response.

This was beyond odd. Where was he? He wasn't in the apartment—that was certain. Everything had been dark before Arthur turned the lights on. He stopped in the middle of Francis's apartment and glanced around once more to be certain that Francis wasn't here.

Should he be worried? No, no... Nothing would ever happen to Francis. He was just late... very, _very_ late.

Arthur made a triple check to ensure that Francis wasn't in the apartment, even checking the bathtub before he returned to the bedroom to change out of his pajamas and made the decisive choice of going down to the lobby to ask the clerk if she knew anything about Francis's absence. Francis had told him before that if he was ever late or if something came up he would call the lobby, since he only had one phone (albeit one Arthur had ever seen him use) and he always took it with him to work.

What had actually possessed Arthur to go down there? What had stopped him from just staying in Francis's apartment and waiting for him?

He wouldn't admit it but he was worried. Francis had never been this late before and _something_ had been nagging at him ever since the moment Francis had left for work.

Arthur took the stairs, his feet thumping down the steps as he thought. Anxiety was practically swallowing him by the time he had actually reached the clerk's counter.

She was typing on her computer and, for a minute, Arthur was questioning who would bother to stay up this late. It was certainly more convenient to have 24-hour service, but if Arthur had been the one working at the desk that late he would have fallen asleep already.

Arthur was turned around, leaning against the counter when he heard the woman's voice. "Can I help you?" She finally asked.

"Yes," Arthur replied, back towards her. "Have you heard anything from a Mr. Francis Bonnefoy?"

She looked at Arthur for a long time like he was crazy, but Francis had done the same so many times that he was used to it. Afterwards, she typed on her computer, where apparently she could find the answer to Arthur's question.

"He said he would call," Arthur clarified. Francis had taught him enough to know that a bloody computer wasn't a phone.

"Then I'm sorry sir, but no one by that name has called," she informed.

Dejected, Arthur cast another glance around. No matter where he looked, he couldn't find the answer.

"E-excuse me then," he muttered, and went back up the same stairs he had just tread.

He felt at a loss. He didn't know enough to search any further for Francis, but maybe there was the hope that he would come back on his own.

Arthur returned to the apartment and closed the door behind him, tossing himself onto the couch. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. He could wait for Francis to come back, but who knows how long that would take if he had been made to stay at work for a few more hours.

Arthur turned the TV on and idly glanced at the screen, hoping that it might bore him to sleep. He should probably just go back to bed. There was no need to worry.

The screen flickered on and a well-dressed woman appeared holding a microphone, a building blocking most of the background. "...The fire had apparently been started by faulty wiring in the lighting system," the news anchor was saying, the footage panning over to the building behind her. The fire had long died out, but flashing lights indicated that there were still emergency personnel on the scene. The burned building looked desolate, smoke simmering from the top of the roof. "None have been counted dead, but there are over five people with serious burns," she continued.

Just glancing at the scene sent a chill of ice down Arthur's spine. He definitely didn't want to believe that Francis was a part of this, but with everything else he was suspecting, anything was a possibility.

He immediately turned the TV back off and turned over in the couch, refusing to rise and take the bed. He would wait until Francis came back, and then he'd- he'd...

He didn't know. The only thing Arthur did know was that he was frustrated—with himself and Francis and everything else, and only because he couldn't shake the feeling of total devastation that haunted him.

* * *

Arthur didn't know how he had managed to do it, but he had eventually fallen asleep. He knew this because, when he heard his name being called, he woke up.

"Arthur?" Francis's voice (thank goodness) called for him.

Maybe last night had just been a dream. Arthur opened his eyes as he stretched, sighing with relief.

Francis's condition, however, almost left him choking on air.

Francis's eyes shadowed with exhaustion, his hair was messier than usual and his clothes were bathed in soot. He was standing so close that Arthur could reach out and touch him if he wanted to (and maybe he would, just to confirm that this was bloody _real_ ). He had a bag in his hand full of boxes that he placed on the coffee table for later.

Arthur quickly rose to a sitting position as Francis began to defend himself (and rightly so—even if Arthur didn't say so, it was obvious that he had been worried).

"Before you get angry, I did call the front desk around four." He muttered weakly, trying to defend himself. "I promise. I called first chance they would let me. One of the lights on the battens overheated by the open dance floor and the whole thing crashed and caused a fire."

Arthur paused and eyed Francis studiously as he collected his thoughts. There was no doubt now that Arthur's intuition had been right, and that the news Arthur had been watching was about Francis.

Now the question became _was_ he angry that Francis hadn't come back on time? Well...

Francis's absence had been unintentional, and no matter how upset Arthur might have gotten over not knowing where he was Arthur couldn't blame this on him.

"I was in the back with two others and we got trapped. We were the last out but none of us were badly hurt. The only injuries were those on the dance floor when the lights collapsed. No one is dead, but a few came close." He took a shuddering breath, Arthur reaching to lower him into a seat beside him. "I and my two co-workers were treated for shock and possible smoke inhalation at the hospital. That's when I asked them to call you. I'm sorry. I knew you were waiting, but they wouldn't let me go."

Through all of Arthur's knotted anxiety and frustration, he could find some sort of peace in at least knowing that Francis was still breathing. He just didn't want to hear any more about his narrow escape with death (for _obvious_ reasons). "I saw it on the news, Francis. That's close enough to me living it without your generous insight," he grumbled.

He couldn't find it in himself to fully accept Francis's apology. He had been so worried, and since it wasn't Francis's fault that he had been late in the first place, Arthur couldn't understand why he was apologizing at all.

He centered on Francis's stricken face and sighed, reaching to massage his temples. Why was he so nervous? Between the both of them, he had hoped that at least one of them would be calm enough to face this sort of problem when it arose.

"Oh, is it too vivid for you?" Francis retorted. "I'm sorry if I thought that you deserved an explanation for my absence, or were you not worried at all?"

Oh, drat. "No, it isn't like that! Don't say those things Francis, of course I was worried!" Arthur shouted back, reeling back to supply more room to glare at him with.

Francis scoffed, running a hand through his weathered hair. "Then why are you glaring daggers at me?"

Because he was tired and frustrated and he had nothing else to complain and yell at. He didn't want to blame Francis or punish him for something out of his control, but this was death and it stressed him to no end.

"Let's not talk now. It's... it's not right of me to stress you like this. You need a bath." He was silently proud of himself for dropping his ego enough to get those words past his mouth.

He averted eye contact as Francis stared at him, and then eagerly rose and left his presence, so angry that he hadn't even supplied Arthur with a snarky comment before he left.

Suddenly, Arthur felt very old and sad and almost dead. Had Francis really just come through that door? Had they really just diffused an argument that quickly? What was Arthur doing burdening the weight that Francis was supposed to be carrying? He shouldn't be worrying about death but comforting the one that had almost died, knowing that it must be devastating to be so close to the afterlife because he had lived it. This was no time for thinking things like that especially during what was supposed to be a happy time in his life! He was supposed to see his house tomorrow!

While Francis bathed, Arthur staved off the temptation of falling asleep, instead spending his time trying to concoct a reasonable way of apologizing for his harsh words without sounding too weak or selfish or... blimey, all those other things he didn't want to be.

An hour and a half passed by (the sun was well up by then, to Arthur's surprise) without any signs of Francis, so Arthur decided that he'd check just to make sure that Francis hadn't gone to bed yet. He knocked on the bedroom door and bode himself entrance when he didn't hear Francis's voice. No clothing was lied out: not even a sign was left that he had been searching for any.

Maybe Francis's wounds hurt so much that he hadn't bothered to choose any clothing? Even so, if he had forgotten them, maybe Arthur could help by asking Francis if he needed any and, through that, he could apologize to Francis for being so coarse.

Arthur approached the bathroom door and knocked three times. He waited _at least_ half a minute and, when there was no answer, knocked again. Call Arthur superstitious, but it wasn't right to leave Francis by himself so shortly after his near-death experience (who knew just what he could get himself into when he was alone!).

With this in mind, Arthur slowly opened the bathroom door, cracking it just widely enough to peek through. He saw the bath and spotted Francis in it, immediately thanking God that the Frog was safe and that only his face was visible. His head was tossed to the side as he snoozed quietly and, given the circumstances, this made him look almost... cute.

"Francis," Arthur called, his head retreating slightly behind the door as he spoke.

There was still no response. Francis was deep asleep, his breaths deep and even.

"Francis!" Arthur called again, this time more loudly _just_ to make sure that Francis heard.

Water was tossed on the floor as Francis flinched awake, the look of surprise on his face undeniable as his dangling hand flung upwards. Arthur managed to sate his grin before it spread too quickly across his face.

"Arthur?" He inquired confusedly, casting his eyes towards the door.

"Ah, um... yes, well now that you're awake don't fall asleep again, hm?" Arthur stated, averting eye contact as he felt the blood rising to his face. _Certainly_ Francis wouldn't bother to notice.

He was preparing to close the door again when Francis called his voice. "Arthur, wait. Is everything all right? Are you still upset?" He queried.

Of all the things to ask! "Don't worry about me, Francis, I'm fine. Just a little stressed."

He shut the door afterwards, deciding that he didn't want to talk about how rude he had been, especially when Francis was in the tub.

While on his way back to the couch, Arthur had even forgotten to ask Francis about his clothes.

PAGE BREAK

Francis watched as Arthur turned his face fully away and closed the door, leaving him to his bath again. Eyebrows could be so ridiculous sometimes! He had even blushed even though he hadn't seen anything, and even if he _had_...

Francis ducked his head underwater and scrubbed the ash out of it, managing to ignore the urge to yell at Arthur to return. He tried not to move much in consideration of his burns, some spots more scorched than others. At least it wasn't as bad as when he had first gotten into the tub when it had burned so, so badly.

He assiduously cleaned what parts of his body wouldn't burn if he touched them and then exited the bath, not yet eager enough to swathe his burns in clothing but sensible enough to wrap a towel around his waist (he didn't want to scar Arthur _that_ badly). He then entered the living room, where Arthur turned and immediately resumed blushing at him.

"Where are your clothes?" He half-exclaimed, and then turned his eyes to the light(er) burns trailing along Francis's arm. His mouth decisively closed after that, his eyes instead boring through Francis for an answer.

"Obviously the burns hurt, Arthur. I need them to be wrapped before I even _try_ to put a shirt on," Francis replied with a scoff.

"Oh. Ah... so you need help with that, don't you?" Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow. His whole body emanated unease, from his stiff posture to the hands clasped together on his lap.

"It would be appreciated, yes," Francis replied as he searched through the bag he had brought with him when he first returned to his apartment. He pulled the bandages out and placed them on the table, searching for the lotion afterwards.

Arthur remained eerily silent as Francis took the supplies out. Once he had everything he needed, he caught Arthur's eyes again. "Arthur, do you want to talk about the fire? You look extremely uncomfortable and, frankly, even for you it's a little odd."

Arthur shook his head, rejecting the question. "No, I don't want to talk about it. For the time being, just let me help you with your burns, okay? It's the least I could do."

What followed was an awkward encounter as Francis sat quietly and allowed Arthur to slather his burns with lotion (the exceptions being the edges of the burns, where the bookshelf had pierced deeper into the skin). Arthur also wrapped them for Francis, which had been even more awkward because Arthur was tactless with the human body (luckily, Francis was able to look past that: he was too tired to be grumpy about it).

After they were done, Francis was very content with the work. The bandages were snug around his figure and he admired them as Arthur practically glared at him to cover them.

"Why are you still looking at me like that?" Francis asked as he began to rise, fixing the towel around his waist.

"I'm not looking at you like anything," Arthur defended.

"Yes you are. You're looking at me like I've just killed someone," Francis noted honestly, resisting the urge to vocalize all of his wonderful, intricate examples (like, oh, the way Arthur's eyebrows sat just above his painfully scrunched-up eyes).

"It doesn't concern you," Arthur snapped back that time, forcing Francis to gasp.

"Of course it does!" He huffed, trailing a hand through his soft hair. "It's about the fire, isn't it? I want to talk about it with you, even if it makes you uncomfortable. It isn't right to keep your feelings from me like that. Let's admit it, I almost died. Don't avoid it."

Francis had an innate sense that this was what this was about: it was about death, Arthur's death, and the fright that they both had (Arthur couldn't deny it) over losing one another. Whatever this was- call it a friendship or a... a... _je ne sais quoi_ , it didn't matter. Francis wanted to talk about it—he had come to trust Arthur enough.

Arthur looked to be fighting an internal war with himself (probably over whether to fess up or argue like he always did). His face flashed with obvious bewilderment- there was a lapse of knitted brows- and then he sighed with frustration.

"Fine, you did almost die. Are you happy yet? Is that enough for you?" He grumbled.

"...Not really, mon cheri. That doesn't explain your feelings about it at all."

"So you actually expect me to talk about death with you? How I feel about it? We're both too tired for this Francis and frankly, I don't want to talk about it with you. You don't know enough- or maybe it's too much- ugh! Can't you just let it be?"

Arthur looked more frustrated now, His thick eyebrows drawn over his eyes in that manner that Francis enjoyed so much, only this time they weren't just bickering. Arthur looked intensely agitated and more upset than Francis had hoped him to be.

Some part of Francis- somewhere deep within himself- genuinely wanted to allow Arthur to get away with making another excuse about his unease, but his curiosity was too much to let Arthur manage this time.

"What is it? Is it the worry that's upsetting you or something else?" Francis inquired.

"Are you really that blind?" Arthur stated sharply, this time without any thought. "You can't seriously be this lighthearted about it, can you? I'm upset because I know that if you had died—you must have known that I would think this-you thought it too, yes?—that it would ruin me. The Lord has no right to play with you—us— like that."

Francis hadn't been expecting that. He looked back at Arthur almost as if he had just realized that he was there. Arthur was scarcely straightforward and Francis could tell that it meant a lot to Arthur that he not treat this lightly.

So that was how Arthur really felt. In a strange way, Francis was touched. Francis's existence was so important to Arthur that he would be ruined without him. Why did this make Francis so happy, even if they were talking about dying (and even worse the afterlife)?

"I haven't been treating it lightly at all. I just thought that it would be better if I didn't dwell on it too much," Francis explained.

"Well that's a stupid thing to do, Francis. Don't treat this like nothing because it's not nothing," Arthur retorted to him, turning his eyes away. "I had been so worried..."

He looked so isolated when he glanced off like that, his curved emerald irises impregnable. Arthur's despair almost brought Francis back to thinking about his own death as well, but he didn't want to think about that because he knew that Arthur was right and that, beyond that, there were other, more important, things to think and talk about.

"I know that you had been worried Arthur, and that's why I had tried to apologize when I got back but it didn't sound like you had heard me."

"Of course I heard you, you dolt! But this was none of your fault; how could I have possibly found it in myself to accept an apology that wasn't supposed to be given?" Arthur queried, sneaking a glance at him.

Ah, well that actually made sense. "Okay, okay, but next time you get upset you don't have to yell at me for explaining myself to you," Francis further defended.

"I'm just on-edge, Francis. You... you'll forgive me, right?"

"Of course I'll forgive you, mon cher," Francis lightly replied, half-tempted to sit back down and spend the whole evening wasting his time with rhetorical talk with Arthur (no doubt Arthur wouldn't mind if he did).

Unfortunately, a yawn interrupted them before they could go any further. Francis tiredly wiped his eyes, catching Arthur through the half-closed lids as he watched.

"We can prolong the rest of our conversation for later. You need rest," Arthur noted.

"That would help a lot, yes," Francis agreed, nodding his head as he turned to return to his bedroom.

"Oh, but before you go," Arthur stated, Francis feeling a tentative touch against his arm and turning to see that Arthur had risen to stand before him, "we should wait to go into London. You need time to rest," he stated.

The only problem Francis had with that was that he didn't want to wait any longer to return Arthur to the only thing that still existed from his past life. "My burns won't immobilize me, Arthur. Just give me a few hours and then I'll be fine to go," he replied.

Arthur looked incredulous but removed his hand nonetheless. "...Fine. Take all the time you need."

* * *

Francis grinned with relief as his back finally hit the pillows (trying to ignore the pang sent through his burns at the contact,) and he closed his eyes, feeling that he was more content than he could have hoped to be when Arthur had learned of his scrape with death.

As his thoughts drifted to sleep, Francis thought of how splendid it felt to know that Arthur had confided in him about his unease and that, to spite the fire, it had only consolidated what Francis already felt for Eyebrows.


	9. The House

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! I know this is sooo late! XP**

* * *

Arthur spent his evening packing the last of his clothing and toiletries into his suitcase as he supplied Francis with his deserved sleep. He had cast only one neglectful glance at Francis's empty suitcase before leaving for the living room, deciding that choosing Francis's clothing for him would be a useless venture because, no matter what he chose, Francis would somehow find an excuse to hate it.

He had a peculiar lack of interest in reading; each time Arthur opened a book, he couldn't bring himself to find interest in the plot, no matter how well-written it was. More than once, Arthur caught himself staring blankly through the living room's window, casting another book to the carpet.

He sat in a silence that, for an inexplicable reason, was disturbing him far more than his short attention span. It occurred to him that he didn't want to be alone and that he didn't care whether Francis was asleep or not.

The desire was selfish and- although Arthur would never tell anyone- needy. One did not simply accept that a friend had almost died without feeling disturbed by it and it happened that in Arthur's case the near-death experience unnerved him more than he could have ever hoped it would.

Arthur acquired a chair from the kitchen and brought it with him into Francis's bedroom, acknowledging that if the Frog were to wake up he would have to think quickly to explain himself. To his relief, however, Francis didn't stir a centimetre, and Arthur was free to seat himself beside Francis's bedside without any problem.

Arthur remained silent as he cast his eyes to the window behind Francis's bed, watching the tips of buildings and the light scattering of snow directly outside the window. Like powdered sugar, it stuck to the soil and the concrete outside, the color soft and silencing.

The devastation of knowing what Francis had undergone not a day ago haunted Arthur's thoughts as he glanced back down at his serene face and, in one rare moment, revered him for existing and giving Arthur a second-handed purpose. He looked exhausted, his gold tresses spread beneath a pillow, his eyelids and soft breaths concealing smirks, winks, and every other annoying gesture Arthur had ever seen him make (and liked— _sometimes_ ).

Arthur seldom remembered that Francis was so fragile, that just because he was energetic did not protect him from the fragility of human life.

He sighed lightly as he reached to stroke Francis's scalp, searching for solstice away from his thoughts.

Francis's eyes lifted open upon the contact and for a second that lasted for an eternity they locked eyes, then Arthur's hand flashed back to his lap as Francis stared on in awe. Arthur stared back at him with just as much surprise, his irises large, as though Francis had just come back from life.

"Wh-what are you doing?" Francis asked, bewildered, as he propped himself up on his elbows.

"I wasn't-" Arthur cut himself off, flushed.

He could see the growing smile on Francis's weary face, signs of mockery clinging to the twist of his lips. "So you weren't touching me just now?" He interrogated.

Arthur stood from his chair, turning the wooden legs away as he prepared his escape. "I didn't say that," he retorted, casting Francis a pointed glare that told him to say nothing.

Long before Arthur felt the cold metal of the doorknob underneath his palm, he heard Francis's unrestrained laughter. With an embarrassed huff, he slid through the door, slamming the door behind him just to make a point.

PAGE BREAK

Francis allowed himself a moment to breathe as the last of his chuckles died, watching as Arthur slammed the door shut.

Arthur's appearance beside his bed was enough to motivate Francis to get up, burns or not. After all, _mon lapin_ hadbeen worried enough to sit at Francis's bedside (and was fortunate enough not to see anything he wouldn't want to).

Francis changed into a fresh shirt and then brushed the knots out of his hair, checking for disaster (Arthur wasn't exactly trusted to handle his hair given the condition of his own).

Afterwards, he discovered Arthur in the living room, his head directed towards the door as though he had been waiting for Francis to waltz through it.

"Oi Francis, you wouldn't mind if we had a quick lunch before we set off, would you?" He inquired.

"I was counting on one," Francis responded, eyebrows slightly raised as he walked to the kitchen, Arthur on his heels. He must be starving.

Since it was just the two of them, if was not a surprise to Francis that they oftentimes had leftovers (he was, after all, used to preparing larger dishes than those he had recently had to conjure up). A plate of croissants and extra fruit were placed on the table, Arthur the one to fish out the milk so he could pour himself a glass.

Lunch went by smoothly, neither very interested in talking, supposedly because Francis's awakening encounter with Arthur was still fresh in his mind.

Just as Francis was finishing his first croissant, Arthur popped the question he had been dreading to hear. "When are we leaving for London?" He queried, impervious to Francis's grimace.

Francis wasn't excited for the long ride there, especially because he knew that his burns weren't going to leave him alone once he settled himself in the driver's seat. Even now, he could feel his skin throbbing uncomfortably against the restraints of his shirt.

" _Une minute,_ Arthur! I haven't even begun to wake yet! You wouldn't want me driving right now, would you? Because I can pretty much guarantee a car accident if we did," Francis lightly informed, watching as Arthur's face became taught with horror. Wonderful, so Arthur understood. Francis had hoped he would, given the way Arthur reacted to most of Francis's comments about technology.

Luggage was packed, whines from Arthur to hurry up were made, and then, ten extra minutes later, Francis was finished packing (spending more time doing so, of course, just to aggravate him).

Arthur struck up a delightful conversation about London as they walked down the stairs to the lobby, Francis offering what non-racist insight he could into what his experiences had been like ever since he first traveled to this wretched place. Honestly, Arthur had never left Britain when he last lived there, right? Why was he asking what it was like now if he obviously had more experience?

"By the way, what were you doing in London when you, well, you know," Francis inquired as he followed Arthur down the flight of stairs, keeping his voice hushed so no one would overhear.

"I was writing," Arthur replied easily. "I don't remember the details, though. Probably something stuffy, that I can guarantee," he voiced as he slipped through the door of the bright lobby to the sidewalk-lit streets of the city.

Snow blew against Francis's face, numbing his nose. He chuckled lightly at Arthur's comment. For someone as prideful as Arthur, it surprised him to hear Arthur admit that his writing was "stuffy" (although it was true—that Francis could prove given all the Shakespearian and murder-mystery things he read all the time).

"A journalist maybe," Francis supplied as they approached his car and he shuffled around to find his keys. Once they were procured from his jacket pocket, Francis unlocked the doors and the trunk, thanking Arthur as he lifted the luggage into the back. At least he was courteous enough not to force Francis to do it.

"I'm not sure," he mumbled, sighing lightly as he lifted the last of their luggage into the trunk. "Either way it doesn't matter now."

Didn't matter? Well, Francis begged to differ. This was Arthur's past they were talking about—of course it mattered!

"Why do you say that?" Francis inquired as he walked to the front of his car and got in. "Are you no longer interested in writing? Is it because you've done it before that you're not interested in it now? Why, exactly, doesn't it matter?"

"Well, it's just..." Arthur stepped into the passenger seat and sat down, closing the door, "It's not really a part of me anymore. I haven't written in over a century."

Francis released a poorly concealed scoff. "So? Your past matters very much, Arthur. It's offensive to your brethren when you decide to neglect that you were human in your past life," he stated, the car humming to life as he put the keys in the ignition.

Arthur gave no further comment, snidely turning to stare out the window instead.

"Fine, be like that," Francis grumbled as he drove, turning up the heater to push the cold away.

* * *

Arthur yawned and stretched his arms above his head. How long had it been since he first started napping? Were they almost there?

"Ah, Bonjour Arthur. I see that you're awake; just on time, too, because we have just now officially entered London."

There was no denying that Arthur was excited. He immediately peered through his window, anticipating the view he had seen when he last left. He was not as surprised as he had expected to be when everything appeared different to him. There was still some of that old charm but it was difficult to decipher through the mass of people bustling on the street and the cars blocking Arthur's view.

"Could you search for the house and give me directions?" Francis queried, extending his phone to Arthur.

"Do you actually think that I know how to operate that _thing_?" Arthur grumbled, leaning away from it. He didn't like technology, as Francis might have guessed, so where was the use in asking him to help?

"You make it sound so complicated," Francis replied with a chuckle, pocketing the phone. "Could you at least read off the signs as I pass? Alert me if any of them sound familiar to you."

That much Arthur could do. "I can do that," he complied.

Thus for (roughly) the next fifteen minutes, Francis drove Arthur around central London as they searched for his house. Arthur wasn't shy about complaining when Francis drove too quickly past the signs, in fact even telling him on several occasions to slow down.

"I don't understand why for the life of me why you can't—"

"Francis, stop! I see it over there! Look!" Arthur interrupted, shouting at Francis to be certain that he knew. It was still here, thank goodness. Arthur had been hoping that it would be. Hoping...

"God Arthur, calm down before you have a heart attack," Francis grumped.

He tried to rest in his seat, but was too excited. What did his house look like now? Did anyone live in it? What would Francis think of it when he saw it?

"Where is it now?" Francis inquired.

"It's over there," Arthur informed, reaching over to point it out to him. Compared to the neighboring houses, it was older and smaller. Patches of yellow grass dotted the lawn and dusted windows made it difficult to see inside.

After parking the car, Francis turned it off, the humming of the engine drumming into silence. Unlike Bristol, it was drizzling in London, although Arthur didn't let that deceive him. The cold would probably be just bearable.

Arthur turned to Francis, meeting his gaze. "You can go out and look at the house, but don't be too long," he conceded before Arthur even had the chance to blurt out that _I'm going to look at the house and you can't stop me._

Although Arthur wouldn't dare admit it, a smile spread across his face at the invitation and, out of focus on his house, he dismissed the umbrella in the back. Instead, he hopped out of the passenger seat and into the freezing rain, only allowing him a second to pull on his trench coat before he made the minimal trek to the sidewalk.

He heard the driver's door close and saw as Francis came to join him, a pre-opened umbrella raised over both their heads. "You're going to get pneumonia because you couldn't wait forty seconds," Francis whined over the soft _pitter-patter_ of the rain. It was an awfully dull day for the sort of reunion Arthur was imagining.

"Bollocks, Francis. I had the flu less than two months ago and I haven't even been in the rain longer than a minute," Arthur retorted idly, trying his hardest to conceal the eager smile playing on his lips.

Francis scoffed. "It's freezing out, idiotic Brit. Does it matter if it's one second or one hour if you're still getting soaked through?"

Arthur spared him a small glance. Were they really arguing about his health? Francis should have spent his time worrying about himself, not Arthur—he could handle himself. Gesturing to the house, Arthur inquired, "Shall we take a look?"

He marched down the walkway and to the front of the house, where a small wooden porch provided some salvation from the rain—Arthur didn't remember that being there when he owned it. He bent down slightly and waved a hand in front of the window to see whether his shadow would make any of the house visible to see. When he squinted, he could make out shadows of furniture: a couch, grandfather clock, bookshelves.

"Let's not waste too much time here, Arthur," Francis stated to him, his voice strung with discomfort.

"Look at that, Francis. I swear the carpet was nearly the same when I owned this place. It's the same colour at least," Arthur noted nostalgically. What a silly, strange place. He had expected bigger changes (like newer furniture, a TV, and lightbulbs), not the strange mix of old and new that he was confronted with now.

Arthur turned back to Francis, expecting to hear some snide comment about how the carpet didn't match with the (admittedly ugly) floral wallpaper. Instead, he found Francis shuffling on his feet, adjusting the umbrella he had brought.

"It... looks like it had been nice once," Francis replied. "It could use a good cleaning, though. Do you think anyone is living here?"

"No; not just because I hope so, but because it just looks so... lonely. It doesn't look like a home." Even Arthur could admit that much. "Let's get out of this cold, shall we? Just don't forget that I want to see the inside."

"I can look up the owners while you're back at the hotel getting a shower before dinner," Francis commented, reaching to help Arthur up. Arthur was shocked by the warmth of his fingers as he rose to his feet, grudgingly pulling his fingers away.

"You feel cold, Arthur. You see, I told you so," Francis complained as they walked back to the car.

The hotel, aside from having a beautiful ninth floor sight of the city, was a deal. That was because there was only one bed, and Francis made a good show of complaining about it.

"I swear it said two beds," Francis stated, his suitcase thumping against the floor. He looked so flabbergasted that Arthur couldn't restrain his smirk.

"It's fine Francis, you can take the bed. It wouldn't be right of me to make you sleep on the couch knowing that your burns will probably be trouble anyways, no?" Despite the lightheartedness of the comment, he meant the words. He knew that he would be infuriated if he was injured and had to sleep on a bloody couch.

Francis yielded no complaints. He had set to packing as Arthur started them on their evening plans. In his mind, they deserved to splurge a little—he hadn't been in London for a very long time and Francis had never seen its splendors before.

Today was already a very, very long day, Francis didn't want to cook, and Arthur didn't complain against the agreement of going out to eat. Beyond that, neither knew enough about London to decipher what they'd like to do with the evening. To both of them, dinner was enough.

Afterwards, Arthur left with his attire: a black and white ensemble consisting of a black vest, a white dress shirt, green tie, black jacket and black slacks. He had tried for green accents, but ended up feeling more like something out of an old movie.

He exited the bathroom to find that Francis was dressed just as pleasantly (if not handsomely). He wore a color palate of gray with touches of lavender that, when he wore, just looked gorgeous.

"We'll dazzle London with our attractiveness," Francis had commented, leisurely leaning against the dresser, his legs crossed. Lord, never let him know how handsome he looks. That would just make things unfair.

Francis chose the restaurant, explaining to Arthur that it had five stars and wonderful reviews.

They unanimously agreed to walk there, which, now that they were actually doing it, Arthur regretted deeply. Why had he thought that this would ever be easier than driving? Francis had insisted that he needed to get a good sight of a city at night (apparently it was too gorgeous to pass up—Francis's words, not his,) but he didn't see anything beautiful about it.

"Wait up you bloody frog!" He shouted, practically brandishing a stranger with his open umbrella as he tried to shove through the crowd and catch up with him.

Francis turned around to wait for him, hands in his pockets. "What is it, mon cheri? Why do you look so pale?" he inquired.

It almost felt as though Arthur's feet had glued themselves to the concrete. At least Francis wasn't moving either. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because you had almost abandoned me," he hissed, obviously vengeful.

Now, Francis moved through the small throng of people to take Arthur's umbrella. He leaned in close- too close for the space between them to be comfortable- and inspected Arthur's face (and being in a crowded area did not excuse his behavior).

"Oh, je desoleѐ Arthur. I didn't know that you were claustrophobic."

What? In his past life, he had never been uncomfortable around crowds. What was Francis saying?

"No, I... I'm fine," he insisted, reaching back over for the umbrella.

Francis kept it out of his reach, leaning backwards so Arthur would nearly have to topple him to get it back. He chuckled as he spoke, saying, "Non Arthur, you were like this in the elevator, too. If you don't want to admit it then fine, but at least stay a little closer, oui?"

It was a kind gesture, that Arthur had to admit, but he still wanted to prove that he wasn't frightened of crowds. He attempted to follow on Francis's heels as he weaved through the crowds but almost got lost again anyways, his voice the only thing to save him from being swallowed.

"I told you to wait up, you bloody-" He cut himself off, tempted to whack him upside the head just to show how frustrated he was. He heard Francis huff then felt the warm curve of his fingers against Arthur's palm as he took his hand. "You're not going to get lost, mon cher, I promise."

Dissuaded from complaining any further but definitely not reassured or by any means flattered by Francis's assurance, Arthur kept hold of his hand as they walked, keeping his head bowed so Francis couldn't see how deeply the gesture had affected him. He barely had the focus to socialize as they walked nor did he have any intention to. There was something almost comforting just being in Francis's presence, even though they barely spoke throughout the commute.

"Where is this restaurant, by the way?" Arthur inquired.

"Right over there. We've been able to see it for ages, Arthur. Pay attention," he teased, giving Arthur's hand a squeeze.

Heat rushed to his cheeks but he hoped to squelch it before Francis noticed. "Right. And it's French, yes? What does the inside look like?" He queried, searching to distract himself with conversation.

"It looked nice. Marble floors with ceilings thirty meters in height. It's magnificent," Francis replied, which Arthur couldn't help but feel was a bit biased. "It's highly rated as one of the best places to go without being overly expensive. There's a long menu as well. If it's as good as it looks, I'll be happy."

"Marble? In a restaurant?" Arthur questioned, ducking underneath the umbrella as a car whizzed by. "That's a little too flashy for you Francis, even if it is the French," he grumbled.

"It's marble, not solid gold." He rolled his eyes. "Having a bit of extravagance isn't a terrible thing, mon cheri! You wound me!" He exclaimed.

Arthur scoffed, nudging Francis with his elbow. "I just hope the food tastes good," he stated.

"It's French; of course it will be good," Francis retorted, "versus whatever you call that stuff the British eat."

"Food Francis, it's called food. You just think it tastes terrible because you're not used to it," he defended.

"Do not lie to me, Arthur! It pains my heart that I, and my countrymen, must bear the burden of being of the very few with true cultural taste. We French are always overshadowed by obnoxious Brits who think that one will eventually get used to their food." Francis reached over and flipped his hair, Arthur's expression displaying his disgust.

"I'll have you know that there are Brits in this country who know how to cook," he retorted.

He heard Francis's chuckle but the Frog returned no complaint as he snapped the umbrella closed and held the door open for Arthur.

Vexed, Arthur turned his head away as he entered the restaurant. "Bloody twat spreading lies," he grumbled as quietly as he could without Francis overhearing.

Surprisingly, Francis had not been joking (or even exaggerating, much to his astonishment) with his description of the restaurant. The place was well-lit, delicate chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. The outside décor followed inside, the large columns scaling the walls between long windows.

"Wow..." Arthur breathed, Francis pausing behind him. For a minute, he was sure that he could feel Francis's warm palm against his back, or maybe he was just imagining things.

He could hear Francis speak as he turned towards both him and an unexpected server. "Bonnefoy," Francis stated.

The server led them past dark wood tables covered in white tablecloths to a table near the back. The restaurant was busy, but the tables and booths were spread out evenly, giving them more privacy than what Arthur had anticipated.

He seated himself and took a glance around. The place was extravagant and, although it wasn't his preference, it was very pleasant. He turned to see that Francis was caught staring at the restaurant as if he was home again. Apparently, this place was more resemblant of France than he had thought.

Arthur shifted in his seat but remained silent. Francis had let him talk and think about his past as much as he liked; Arthur could easily return the favour. Unfortunately, almost five minutes had gone by before Francis was available for conversation.

"I like it. What do you think? A bit extravagant I'm guessing," he asked with a grin. He looked around again, watching other diners and the staff buzz about. "Seems they employ Englishmen along with the French. Well enough, so long as they aren't doing the cooking." He joked.

"You've read my mind almost down to the last letter. There's just the little note about the English-"

"Oui," Francis interjected, a sudden smirk gracing his lips. "They're much more charming than I thought them to be—but in their own way, of course. They might prefer to be a little stuck-up but even that is attractive, if the right light is shed on it."

Arthur almost couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was some sort of second-handed attempt at flattering him, he was sure, and it bothered Arthur badly enough that he began to fiddle with his menu.

Francis steeled a quick, amused glance at Arthur's gestures. ""Why are you vandalizing the menu?" He asked with a grin. "Nothing you like on it?" Arthur stuttered to reply, just then realizing that he had been tampering with it in the first place. "What are you getting?" Francis also included, far too quickly for Arthur, as he laced his fingers together on the table and rested his chin on top of them, neglecting table manners.

Too many bloody questions in too short a time made Arthur a bad sport. "Really Francis!" He objected. "You need to listen, not just speak," he scolded, lifting the menu back up. "I haven't decided yet," he added.

With a good-natured scoff, Francis leaned over and picked up his menu as well. "I'm listening, Arthur, you just aren't replying quickly enough."

Either way, Francis helped Arthur choose his dishes, using his expertise in the kitchen to help Arthur identify what foods were likely to taste good to him (living with him for as long as he did helped in this). The assistance was helpful, even though Arthur didn't appreciate the lack of focus he had for Arthur, investing most of his attention in what was quickly becoming his second home.

This gave Arthur a clever thought of how to approach the subject of his house. "You really seem to like this place. What would you think of living here?" He inquired.

Just like that, Francis shut off. He recoiled, hands back at his sides as he leaned back against the chair. It seemed that he tried to salvage conversation, turning onto the hypothetical thought of living inside the restaurant.

It wasn't until a server had left with their orders that Arthur revived the subject. Francis either didn't want to stay in London or was quicker than Arthur thought and understood totally what Arthur meant, where he then ultimately decided not to talk about it. Ignoring Arthur's question was rude but he understood that it was a touchy subject. It was fortunate that Arthur's house won out in the end.

"So Francis, aren't you excited to hear about my house again? I wonder if the landowner will let us look inside," he idly mentioned.

He didn't look so disturbed about the house that he wasn't willing to talk about it, at least. "That might be nice. So long as the heap doesn't fall on our heads while we're there," he mused. "When we get back to the hotel we can look up the owner and I will contact him for you."

Francis made a joke, still in good spirits, and Arthur decided he'd go along with it as well. "Don't worry, even when architects weren't very meticulous with their work they were at least careful not to leave any gaps in the roof. Hopefully it still has some of its old luster. It's also made of brick, so the house is fairly warm during winter. I think the windows need to be cleaned, though. I... doubt you're interested in such a place." What was he doing? Francis probably wasn't interested.

"What do you mean?" He inquired, after Arthur was done speaking and he had already nodded several times in agreement.

"The place is just so... ancient!" Arthur exclaimed, doing a shoddy job of hiding his true intentions.

"Yes, the place is ancient," Francis said patiently. "London is ancient. Paris is ancient. You are ancient. I have nothing against ancient things. I like them," he replied, flipping through the menu. A hiatus passed and, when Arthur supplied no response, Francis shut his menu with a crisp snap. "Why do I feel like you're trying to say something else?" He asked outright, casting Arthur a suspicious glance.

Arthur tried to lighten the mood with a smile. "What does it matter? If you don't know then there's no reason to waste the breath to explain."

Francis huffed, his eyes squinting at Arthur. "Stop smirking at me. It matters because I would far rather prefer that you actually say what you want to say than spend forever never getting to the point."

With a sigh, Arthur made the decision that Francis was right. Anyways, it would be a lot less painful if he just spit it out. "I apologize Francis. I was considering purchasing the house again, but when I really consider it, I have to remember that it's not such a good investment. I believe currency is a little different now too, so it would no doubt be more expensive than it used to be, aye?" Arthur asked. There, straight to the point.

Francis fell silent and then nervously licked his lips. Arthur was reaching back over for his menu when the waitress came out with their dishes. He accepted his with a strained smile, and then turned his eyes back onto Francis before he had a chance to avoid his questions.

"I think I'll have a burgundy Pinot noir with my dessert. What about you?" He asked innocently.

Bollocks, Francis. Stop avoiding the question. "I'll pick later but, more importantly, if you don't want to talk about the house then just say so. You don't have to ignore my trying to discuss this with you."

Francis looked up, a strangely vulnerable expression crossing his face. He watched Arthur intently for a moment as he shifted in his seat. Finally, he spoke. "Arthur..." He hesitated, looking back down at his meal. "It's...not out of the question, I suppose." He said quietly.

Arthur didn't know if Francis wanted to move at all in the first place but suspected it was more of a commitment problem than a moving problem. "We can talk about it later, then." he concluded.

Idle conversation followed, the meal going well but Arthur not enjoying it nearly as much as he had hoped (Francis was actually having a wonderful time, somehow, but he wasn't).

* * *

They returned to the hotel shortly afterwards, Francis remaining in the same high spirits but Arthur resolutely exhausted and ready to go to sleep. He allowed himself a moment of sitting on the couch with Francis but the luster of doing so was wearing off quickly.

He was ready to escape to the bedroom to change when Francis caught him by the hand and brought him back to the couch. "Wait a minute, Arthur. I found a listing of your house online," he informed as he rummaged for something in the black suitcase he had brought.

"And?" Arthur replied, eying Francis as he sat back down.

"I just thought that, because I found the owner for you, you might help oh, I don't know, put together an email for them?" He questioned, pulling a journal from his suitcase. He returned to Arthur's side, taking out a pen as well.

Ah yes, the email concept. Arthur hadn't even touched a computer since he returned, but maybe he could spare a minute or two to type something up for Francis. After all, it didn't look like the Frog intended to type up the message himself.

"Oh, fine then, Francis. I'm making it quick though. I want to go to bed," he grumbled back as Francis handed the laptop to him, the bulky thing placed on his lap. Francis wrote down information as Arthur contemplated what to write.

Dear Mr...

Already he discovered the problem. "Who am I sending this to again?" he inquired.

"It's above the text box, Arthur. Looks like a Mrs. Margaret Jones," Francis replied.

"Who?" Arthur snapped back. Surely, he hadn't heard correctly. It couldn't possibly be-

"Margaret Jones," Francis repeated. He glanced back at Arthur, catching the look of surprise on his face. "What is it? Do you know her?" He inquired.

An ancestor probably but her no. Arthur had never imagined that he would be put in a situation like this but it was bound to happen eventually.

"I can't say that I do," he responded as he slowly typed up a message for Mrs. Jones (Francis agreeing to meeting Margaret at the house at noon), all the while pondering what she was like (did she resemble Alfred at all, or was she the complete opposite?).

When he was done, Arthur rose and walked to the bedroom. "I'm going to change now Francis," he informed, casting a glance back at Francis, who had curled his knees up on the couch and kicked his socks off, his lavender tie loosely curled around his neck like an exotic snake.

"D'accord," he idly called back, eyes pasted to the screen of his laptop.

Arthur didn't have anything to worry about but still, he didn't want to meet Margaret Jones. He didn't want to think about Heaven, willed himself not to think of Alfred or his family. He and Francis hadn't even grazed the subject enough for Arthur to feel like it would be appropriate for him to discuss it with the Frog, if Francis even gave him the chance to bring it up in conversation.

He undressed and slid into the warm, long-sleeved sweater he had brought (he hadn't worn them in so long that it almost felt like a relief to be doing so now). The slacks were substituted with a loose pair of grey sweatpants.

"Oh la la," Francis hummed as Arthur closed the bedroom door behind him.

Arching an eyebrow, Arthur walked over and sat himself beside Francis on the couch. "Twat, stop staring," he scolded, sending Francis a small glare. He leaned over and switched on the television, listening to the news until Francis announced that he was retiring to his bed—something about his wounds needing the rest.

Arthur fished some blankets and pillows out of the bedroom and then bode Francis goodnight as he went back to the couch. If today was interesting then tomorrow was going to be a wonder. He tossed the pillow onto the couch and then dropped himself on top of the cushions. Once Arthur draped the blankets over his body, he closed his eyes and went to sleep.


	10. The House 2

Arthur rolled over on the couch and that, unfortunately, resulted with him on the floor. Ah, _bollocks_. They were going to his house today, which was wonderful, but...

Arthur rose from the floor and seated himself back on the edge of the couch, running a hand through his hair as he pondered whether to wake Francis or nto. He went to the door and then poked his head in, still fully expecting the Frog to be asleep. His burns would have made it hard to, no doubt, which would mean that he would have made it to bed late.

Instead, however, he was met by an empty bed and a small note placed on the pillow.

For heaven's sake! Arthur picked up the note. It read:

 _Arthur,_

 _My burns were bothering me so I left to buy some medicine. I shouldn't be too long._

 _Adieu, Francis_

A very short note but it was better than nothing. Even if Arthur was a little upset about Francis's absence, this was nothing compared to the incident before. This time he would know indefinitely whether Francis was coming back or not.

He changed out of his pajamas and then waited on the couch for Francis. It was still quite early in the morning, so Arthur figured that it would be a while before Francis returned but, much to his surprise, Francis was quick to reappear (whether that made him fortunate or not Arthur wasn't sure).

Francis unlocked the door (very quietly, might Arthur add) and entered with a plastic bag in hand. Unlike the last time when Francis had found Arthur waiting for him, this time there was not a twitch on his face when he realized that Arthur was sitting on the couch.

"Did you read the letter I left?" He inquired as he closed the door behind him.

The slip of paper Francis had left could _hardly_ be called a _letter_ , of all things! "You mean the note? Yes, I read it," Arthur stated, crossing his arms.

"Then I am blameless, oui?" Francis replied.

What would Francis be blamed for in the first place? Arthur cast him a sideways glance. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied confusedly. "Blamed for what? Trying to calm your burns? I would hope you would think better of me than to assume I'd rather you suffer than look for relief."

Francis exhaled exhaustedly, striding across the living room to park himself in a seat beside Arthur. "I didn't want to worry you or wake you up by accident."

Worry? Arthur hadn't been... well, maybe a little, but... "It's too late for any of that now, Francis. Even if I had been sleeping, I would have preferred you to tell me about the burns. I don't mind that you had to leave for a bit and you should know that."

Francis's shoulders lowered and he leaned back in his seat. "That's good. I was worried that you would get upset. I'm sorry that I've offended you Arthur, I really didn't think that you'd interpret it in that way but one can never be too careful, oui?"

Arthur sent him a small, squinted glance then nodded his head. "Just know that I won't be upset as long as you tell me." That was over with, thank goodness. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Then what medicine did you buy?" He inquired maybe too quickly, eager to leave the conversation behind them.

"Painkillers and bandages," Francis replied, opening the bag up so Arthur could see. He wasn't very familiar with the medicine these days, but he knew one thing: it didn't impress him. He discovered nothing but boxes inside the bag, resulting in a roll of the eyes and an apathetic frown.

"Well... if you need any help with the bandages then I could certainly be of assistance. You said there were some burns on your back, yes?" Arthur inquired as Francis reached in and took a box out of the bag. The box had a picture of something on it, but Arthur didn't bother to find out what.

"If you help me put bandages on, you'll have to see the burns. I'll figure it out, Arthur. Don't worry about me," he replied with a shrug.

"Oh really? And how long do you think that will take?" he retorted with a challenging smirk. "You'd only end up hurting yourself if you tried to 'figure it out' yourself." By the sounds of it, Francis didn't even know what he was doing, the dolt, and Arthur could only imagine the mess Francis would get himself in. What if Arthur happened to walk into the bedroom while he was patching his wounds, only to discover that he had gotten the bandages twisted in the process? To Arthur, such an event seemed more than likely to occur.

Francis turned his eyes onto Arthur, his expression oddly pleading. If the Frog's hesitance was due to some sort of pride complex then Arthur would have to classify that as one of the most pathetic reasons to refuse help. Francis would never be able to reach back to clean his wounds let alone wrap them, so why didn't he simply ask for the help he obviously needed?

Arthur's eyes returned the gaze, staring intensely as he spoke. "You need help. Admit it already and let me help you."

Francis's eyes dropped first, sighing as he replied. "If you really want to help, fine."

What followed was half an hour of serene silence. Arthur spent his time sanitizing, applying lotion, and wrapping Francis's burns. The marks were incredible, poised in a line starting from Francis's left shoulder to the top of his hip. The shape was curved slightly, the burns mainly red and blistered; two places where the steel had been reinforced were almost perfect squares of first degree burns just below his shoulder and just above his hip. The rest were second degree, with mild third degree burns surrounding the long line extending down the skin.

Arthur imagined what it must have felt like for Francis when he had tended to Arthur's wounds those few months ago. He tried to be just as gentle on Francis, hands gliding softly over the marks and applying lotion wherever he chose fit (and trying to ignore the patches where the skin was obviously too raw for it).

The bandages were the most awkward part. Although Arthur knew where he wanted to wrap the wounds, getting them around the front of Francis's body had been awkward for him. He stayed silent, expecting Francis not to initiate conversation (which he didn't, quite thankfully).

Arthur was grateful that neither of them talked until he was finished bandaging Francis's wounds, taking his hands quickly away from Francis's back when he was done.

"I'm finished," he informed.

"Thank you." Francis tilted his head, hair sliding from its draped place over his shoulder. "I can actually move without feeling like I'm on fire. I feel far better than yesterday, that's for certain."

Arthur cleared his throat, moving to stand. He wanted his space from the Frog already! "You're welcome," he replied and then, as an afterthought, inquired, "Do you think that Margaret has replied yet?"

"Hm. I don't know. Let's check, shall we?" Francis suggested, reaching over for the laptop placed on the coffee table.

With a sigh, Arthur lowered himself back into his seat. Francis searched through his laptop until he finally reached his email. "She replied," he informed, checking his mail.

"She did?" Arthur leaned forward to inspect the laptop's screen for any signs of a message. He spotted it, a short one promising that she would indeed be there at noon to show them around the house.

Glee surged through Arthur. He was getting his house back! Or, at least, looking inside. Either way, this was exciting for him. He'd get to rekindle something from his past life unlike what he had been dreading since he came here. There was something still here from his past, and he was going to see it.

Arthur caught Francis's eye just as he began to speak. "This is your chance to visit your home, Arthur. I hope it's as you wish it to be, although sadly I don't believe that's possible. It's old and decrepit, but we can hope for the best, oui?"

How touching. Had Francis really said that though? Recently Arthur had only heard Francis say negative things about his home (like how it was a complete disaster). It was a relief to know that not all of Francis was bad, especially since Arthur had wanted to hear him say such reassuring things to him.

"Francis..." Arthur eyed him, formulating a response. "...thank you." Those words alone portrayed Arthur's gratitude at its deepest (and Francis _better_ be grateful for hearing them).

"Right." Francis said softly, returning the gaze. He cleared his throat and looked away. "I should change."

So much for that. Francis rose, immediately ruffling Arthur's hair. Arthur slapped a hand away, his face scrunching up in discomfort. "I'll try to be quick," He promised. "I'll at least try to make it under thirty minutes this time." Sadly, Arthur couldn't imagine such a thing happening, no matter how hard he tried, considering his wounds.

Francis returned forty minutes later (which surprised Arthur quite a bit, honestly) in the oddest attire Arthur had seen on him. Francis might have made the safe bet of wearing the neutral color of grey but that didn't change that he was wearing a sweater (that was a turtleneck, of all things!). Although Francis didn't look _ugly_ in it, he definitely didn't look _handsome_ either—Arthur even found himself thinking that he'd be able to pull off the look better than Francis

"I see that you're finally trying to fit in with us Brits," Arthur joked, still reclining on the couch.

"It would be impossible for someone as beautiful as me to blend in with such unstylish folks. You should know that already, Arthur. I'm only wearing this because it puts less stress on my burns."

Sure, sure. Whatever Francis said. Arthur rose from his seat, scoffing at Francis's reasoning. "Either way it looks a little... strange." He didn't have the gusto to call Francis unpleasant; if it hadn't been for his burns, though, he would have.

Francis scoffed, flipping his hair as he approached. "You're just jealous that I pull it off so well."

"That's not true at all! I am-" Arthur caught himself before Francis managed to pull him into another argument, sighing instead. "Never mind. You're the Queen of the ball. Just... could we grab some breakfast before we go to see the house?"

Francis eyed him for a moment, maybe considering a complaint when Arthur returned the gaze with a grimace. "Oh, fine then. We can catch something to eat in a café on our way to the house. Sound good?" He queried.

"Sounds fantastic. Let's go," Arthur replied hastily, relived that Francis didn't latch onto the argument any longer (but if they had, Arthur would have definitely won the argument).

* * *

Arthur reclined in his seat as the waiter left with their orders. Francis had an amazing taste for restaurants even in London, although Arthur would be unlikely to voice so. This one in particular had nice charm to it, their window seat giving Arthur a good view of the busy traffic outside. The café was small and smelled wonderful. Arthur could smell tea brewing and heard the distant sound of music playing from a radio.

"You look pleased," Francis observed across from him.

"Naturally," Arthur replied, raising to rest an arm against the cloth-covered table. "And how about you? Do you like it?" He inquired.

Francis cast another look around, taking judgement of the scenery. "It's nice, yes, but nothing compared to the French restaurant we went to yesterday."

Arthur had a feeling Francis preferred the more extravagant places instead of ones like this, but he loved them. They were less expensive, less formal, and more enjoyable.

Content, he fell silent again—at least, until Francis's voice called his attention.

"Arthur," he said through a blown-out sigh, "are you sure you want to follow through with this?" He questioned.

"With what?" He replied, eyes turning back onto him.

"The house, Arthur. Even with my savings there's no way we could afford purchasing it immediately."

What? Arthur had never said anything about buying the place, and even if he wanted to... "I never... when did I tell you that I wanted to?" He shifted in his seat, eyebrows knitted with confusion.

"I'm not stupid, Arthur. You've been implying things ever since you first mentioned your house."

Ah, he'd been caught. Arthur put a hand on his cheek and sighed. "I... I would like to live there again, but..." But that would take commitment, a lot more than just staying with Francis for who-knows-how-long, and it would also require moving. Those things aside, it sounded like Francis knew the other problems as well.

"I would have to take a loan out of the bank to pay for the house, and then I would have to pay that money back. We'd have to think about furniture and moving everything, and even then... are you certain that you'd be able to live in that house with me for as long as it would take to pay the loan back?"

An explosion of thoughts entered Arthur's mind. When Francis finally spoke, he realized how right he was. Currently, they were living in an apartment. That was much less committed than sharing a house together, but if they were to move in then Arthur would have to face the reality of sharing a living space with Francis for _years_. Bills obviously didn't pay themselves (Arthur didn't even have a job), both of them were hesitant, and if the breadwinner wasn't happy, things weren't going to operate smoothly. Even then, this was talking about them being dependent on each other and Arthur felt that neither of them were experienced for that. What if Francis didn't even want to move in? What was he doing being the one to bring this up instead of Arthur? Arthur was at a loss of words. He barely knew Francis; would it be foolish to pour so much trust into something so infeasible now?

"Look. There's a lot to consider here. Let's just... look at the house first, okay?" He stated. They were just bloody friends and now they were considering purchasing a house together. No matter how unique their relationship was, Arthur couldn't shake the disturbing feeling of attachment that he had with this insufferable Frog.

Arthur raised his face quickly enough to see a flash of distress on Francis's face, but being the expert he was, he had no problem hiding that torn expression from Arthur, who _almost_ wanted to say something about it to relieve any concerns he had. However, reminding himself that Francis's anxiety was only temporary strengthened his resolve to discuss it later.

"Fair enough," he replied smoothly, casting his eyes to the window afterwards.

* * *

Francis could hear Arthur sighing at his side as he knocked on the door. He was probably still upset about the joke Francis had made, saying "Oh, it only looks a little bit awful in the daytime," when they had driven up to it.

He definitely felt more at ease once lunch had ended, when he began to regain some of his vigor, but now he had to worry about the price of this house and what it looked like inside. Even if Arthur didn't want to admit it, it was obvious to Francis that he wanted to live here, and if the price allowed, maybe he'd consider it.

The door opened, an elderly woman appearing before them. A head shorter than Francis and Arthur, her rose-coloured lips bid the two a smile. She matched the stereotypical grandmother perfectly in Francis's mind: the floral dress, styled grey hair, easygoing personality (given the readied smile she was displaying, the kind woman).

"Bonjour. You are Madame Jones, I presume?" Francis queried.

"Yes, that's me," she replied, voice gentle and small; the lilt of it put a smile on Francis's lips. "Please, come in."

Francis followed the darling old woman inside, casting a glance at Arthur to confirm that he was following.

"Margaret Jones," Arthur voiced once he had entered the house (the very, very, dusty house), extending a hand towards her. "I am Arthur Kirkland." With a smile they shook hands, Francis taken aback by the gentle curve of his lips. Of course he had smiled before, but never like that. Francis couldn't explain exactly why the smile warmed his heart but it did.

He cleared his throat, attempting to shake off his stunned reaction. "So Mrs. Jones, would you mind telling me a little about this house?" He inquired.

She turned back towards Francis, nodding at his question. "Of course. There's three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, an attic, a basement, and a garden. I would love to show you around, but at my old age even that can be difficult."

That was a pity. "If you are comfortable with it, could we show ourselves around then?" Francis inquired.

"Go ahead. I'll stay here and get the paperwork ready."

Francis's eyes shot open in surprise and he cast a glance at Arthur, who appeared set on ignoring him. Hmph, lousy Brit.

"Let's look around, shall we?" Arthur inquired, nudging Francis in the arm.

Francis felt the urge to nudge back, but refrained as he replied. "Oui, let's."

Arthur led him through the kitchen first; the sureness of his steps made it apparent that he was used to this space. Francis only hoped that he didn't make it too obvious that he had lived here before.

"How does it look? Useable, hopefully?" Arthur questioned, leaning against a counter next to the sink. It was smaller than what they had now, but still had each appliance that Francis required (whether the oven was from this century or not was questionable though). The sink even had a window view overlooking the garden, which would no doubt come in handy. Francis took a glance through it, but to his chagrin only saw weeds.

"The space outside is bigger than it looks," Arthur muttered to him, casting his eyes to the refrigerator, as though he was curious as to whether it had any contents left or not (if anything was left in it Francis could guarantee that it was rotted—disgusting).

The two spared a glance at the bedroom on the main floor, but Arthur explained that it wasn't the master, even though the size was decent. Afterwards, he followed Arthur upstairs to the two other bedrooms and the bathroom.

"Oh yes, Francis, if we do end up purchasing this house then I am calling dibs on the master," Arthur stated, smirking devilishly as they entered the room. A large window stood behind the bed, natural light pouring into the room. It was well-furnished with its own armoire, dresser, nightstand, and bed.

"Oh really? Just don't forget which one of us would be paying for the house, darling," Francis retorted, grinning at the unexpected blush on Arthur's cheeks.

"You imbecile! This house was mine far before you even existed," he grumbled accusingly.

Francis covered his gasp with one hand, enjoying the look of anger on Arthur's face. His eyebrows always made everything that much more adorable, especially when they sat over his eyes like that. "Do lower your voice Arthur. We don't want Margaret finding out about your little past life."

Francis caught sight of a venomous look directed his way, but managed to ignore it with a grin. They then both took a glance outside the window, Francis grimacing at the splotchy patches of grass that he saw.

"We should go outside and look at it from a closer angle," Arthur suggested.

"Oh, Heavens no, Arthur. Isn't it ugly enough from faraway? We won't actually have to make contact with it, are we?" He inquired.

"Tch. Useless. If you want to stay here and wine, then I'll go alone," Arthur grumbled, then authoritatively marched himself out of the room.

Francis couldn't leave the poor Brit alone to save his life. There was still more picking to do, and who knew what Arthur might say if Francis wasn't there to monitor his speech?

Francis followed him downstairs, almost stepping on his heel when he reached to open the door and step outside. The space was definitely different from closer up. The garden was bigger, stretching to about the same width as the house. A wall stood in front of them (what Francis presumed to be part of an apartment), and to both sides hedges were tall enough to maintain the privacy.

Unfortunately, however, the weeds looked worse up close. Arthur had no problem walking through them to examine the yard, but Francis was set on standing just a few centimeters from the doorway they had exited.

"This place used to have a greater calling, you know," Arthur mumbled, still glancing at the yard. Francis could imagine sitting out here once everything had been pulled out, growing beautiful roses and, if what Arthur claimed about growing plants were true, some vegetables as well. This spot would be perfect for evening relaxation.

"You grew plants, non?" Francis inquired, poking at a bramble.

"Yes, I gardened," Arthur replied, turning back to Francis. What a cute thought, seeing Arthur in a sun hat and gloves. Something about the thought was extremely satisfying to Francis. "Stop poking that," he scolded.

Francis huffed, crossing his arms like a child as Arthur returned indoors. At least there were still thoughts of Arthur gardening to keep him happy. He followed, casting one last glance at the rest place-to-be.

"What do you think?" Margaret asked from the couch.

Ah, Francis had almost forgotten that she was there. "It definitely had its merits," Francis confessed, "But it's old, dirty, and needs renovating. Is the basement or attic finished?" He inquired.

"I assure you that both are completed," Margaret replied.

What a bummer. He had been hoping that there was at least a little more damage to the house so that they could purchase it for a reduced price.

Both he and Arthur moved to sit down, Arthur reclining in his seat, looking far more comfortable than Francis was. "So what are you selling it at then?" He asked warily.

Papers immediately bombarded the coffee table, a vanilla envelope full of them. Margaret pulled several papers out then handed one to Francis. It was the original listing printed out. On the top, it read €40,000 that, considering the location, wasn't terrible. It was better than what Francis had been anticipating, at least.

A weight lifted from his chest, but he almost felt physically sore from it (or it could be his burns, since those never ceased to throb). "Would there happen to be any negotiation on the price?" He probed.

Margaret sighed, her gloved hands falling to her lap. "Honestly, I just want rid of the place," she informed.

Hm. That made sense. Francis cast a glance to Arthur who, unfortunately, looked to be lost in his own little world. "Well, Arthur? What do you think?"

"Oh," Arthur replied, blinking the lost look away. "We will definitely consider it."

"Yes," Francis confirmed, "We will consider it. Would you mind if we thought it over for a day?"

"Not at all, Mr. Bonnefoy," Margaret replied. Good. Maybe this way Francis and Arthur could both firmly agree to do this before they did anything they might regret. Who knew? Maybe Arthur had changed his mind.

"Thank you for giving us the time to consider this," Francis said, Arthur nodding his head in agreement.

"Of course," Margaret replied. "I would like to see you again tomorrow to hear your decision."

That sounded perfect. That way, he and Arthur would have almost a whole day to think things over and, if they chose to move in, it would give them time to get the money for the purchase, too. "Will the same time work?" Francis inquired.

"Yes," Margaret confirmed.

"I... suppose we should be going then," Francis muttered, beginning to rise.

"Actually," Arthur intervened, "would you mind if we stayed a little longer? We won't tamper with anything, I promise."

Mrs. Jones sighed, casting a glance at the clock. "...alright, but I must be going soon," she stated.

"That's okay, you can go ahead. If you leave the keys with us, we could lock the place up for you afterwards."

Francis's face immediately turned to one of horror, silently cursing Arthur for saying something so stupid. Margaret had no reason to trust strangers, especially with something so important as keys to the house. "Excuse my friend, he-"

"No, no, that's fine. I have to leave anyway so you two might as well look around as long as you'd like. Just make sure you return the keys- I don't want to have to change the locks," Margaret replied, rising and searching through her pocket for them.

Arthur stood to meet her, accepting the keys with a pleasant smile. "Thank you Mrs. Jones, I'm flattered that you'd trust us. We won't wreck anything, I ensure you."

This was ludicrous. Francis couldn't believe that Arthur was actually doing this. He watched Margaret, the one who was supposed to be the voice of reason, willingly handing over her keys to a stranger. At least Francis had enough sense to know that Arthur would keep his promise, but Margaret couldn't possibly know that.

Margaret Jones left quickly, apparently in a hurry. Arthur turned the keys over in his hands and then handed them to Francis as the door closed. "I don't need them," he informed.

Francis scoffed, pocketing them. "Arthur, you are ridiculous. I can't believe that you did that."

"Can't you?" Arthur retorted, turning back to him. "It's not like I intend to rob her; I just want to look around a bit," he defended.

"We already looked around _a_ _bit_ ," Francis retorted, glaring at Eyebrows.

He was unfazed. "Look. I know you're upset, so we'll just take a quick peek at the basement and then be off. Does that sound reasonable to you?" He queried.

If he were reasonable, they would have left instead of asking for Margaret's keys. "Fine, but just a quick look. I don't want to stay in this dusty place any longer than I have to."

Arthur led the way to the basement, walking fearlessly down a dark flight of stairs to the door at the bottom. By that time, it wasn't very dark. However, once Arthur opened the door, Francis glanced in and confirmed that the basement was in complete darkness, save a small square of light flooding in from a window.

Much to Francis's chagrin, Arthur advanced into the darkness. He opened the door and stepped into the shadows, Francis not hasty to follow.

"If I remember, it was somewhere over here..." Arthur was mumbling to himself like a madman, Francis reaching out for a wall, a light, a box—anything to prevent stumbling.

"What are you talking about?" Francis questioned as he reached towards the ceiling, his hand latching onto a string. He pulled, but the light didn't turn on.

He then reached for the window and managed to pull it open, giving the room a little more light. Arthur's form became lightly bathed in the sunlight, specks of dust floating past.

Arthur was crouched on the floor, digging around the brick. "Arthur, what in the world are you doing?"

Now Francis was confused. What could Arthur possibly be doing? "I'm searching for something. Be quiet," Arthur scolded.

Francis huffed as he came closer, just within kicking distance. He better be careful. "What, was I being too loud? I could have been louder Arthur," he grumbled, pouting as Arthur continued to dig.

He dug his nails into a brick and began to move it, piquing Francis's interest. Arthur wasn't being direct with his answers at all, and how did moving a brick help him find what he was looking for?

Arthur leaned over and stretched his hand into the gap made by the brick, leaning over until he apparently caught onto something and dragged it onto the floor. It was a box—a very dirty, old box. Arthur dusted the top off as he explained. "If you must know, this is a box of... stuff... I put here for safekeeping. I'm actually surprised it's still here," he informed.

Francis knelt down beside Arthur as he turned the box over. "Incredible. You would have thought that it would be gone by now."

He began to rise, pulling the box closer. "When I think about it, it's not like anyone would find it," he grumbled, still dusting the silly box.

"Well then, if you're done robbing poor Mrs. Jones, would you kindly explain why?"

Arthur shifted on his heels, remaining silent. "...I-I haven't stolen anything, you git! This was mine and it still is," he defended finally, turning his eyes away.

"But you found it on property that you don't own anymore. You should put it back, Arthur. You can take it out once we've bought the house," Francis reasoned, hoping that maybe he'd be able to placate some of Arthur's unease.

Instead, Arthur returned Francis's gaze, scowling as he replied. "But what if we don't buy the house, Francis? Could I really ask you to live here with me even though we aren't even in a relationship?"

Ah, there it was. It was like a blessing to finally hear one of them say it, but now there was no turning back.

"Earlier I asked you if you were willing to live in this house with me, but since you never really answered me I assumed it was a no." Francis began to thread his fingers through his hair as he spoke, an old habit from his childhood. When anxiety sparked in him like this, it was the only thing he could do to calm himself.

He could hear Arthur sighing as he replied. "It's... difficult to explain. I'm not going to be the one supporting myself this time. I'm going to be living with someone... This will take a lot of commitment, you know. Do you... do you really think we could take this step just as friends?" He turned to watch Francis for an answer.

Francis swore that he almost choked on nothing. What was Arthur saying? His fingers struck deeper into his mangle of hair, pulling the knots out (if there were any, and there better not be). "I was wondering when you were going to ask that," he muttered with a light chuckle. "Would you be willing to do this with me as more than just friends?"

Arthur cleared his throat, making Francis grin. He could just barely see Arthur's face through the veil of darkness, but he was sure that he was blushing. It must have been an adorable sight. "...Yes, I'm willing to, as long as you are, too," Arthur replied, "and that means being able to trust me."

This was really happening. Arthur was willing to live with him and even start a relationship with him! "I might have suffered in the past, but I know that I will have no problems trusting you, as long as you promise that you are not saying this just to make me happy."

He heard a scoff. "I _can_ be selfless sometimes, you know," Arthur defended, then clearing his throat as he continued. "But... just _one_ thing... if we do this, then we'll be-what- _boyfriends_?"

The tone of his voice put a grin on his face, one he couldn't deny. "Naturally, Arthur, but why do you ask? Does that change your opinion on things?" Francis questioned curiously. Arthur had been the one to suggest it but now he was already changing his mind?

"N-no!" A frustrated sigh. "We've gotten this close already, so... doesn't it only make sense that we resort to something more committed?"

Arthur was being extremely vague and this wasn't sounding like a romantic confession at all. He sounded more as if he was in a business meeting, or trying to solve a problem that had a much less complex question. "Calm down, cheri. Don't worry so much. You don't have to skirt around your confessions like that," Francis assured, smirking at Arthur's shadow.

"Sh-shut up! Let's get out of this bloody basement," Arthur grumbled back, almost stumbling directly into Francs whilst trying to escape. Francis held onto his arms, turning him around so he was facing the stairs.

"Be careful, mon cher. We don't want you breaking any bones now," he hummed cheerfully, following Arthur up the stairs. Strange to believe that their relationship had started in a musky old basement.

Once they were standing back in the light, Francis could easily survey Arthur's reddened cheeks. He looked flustered, turning his head away when Francis saw it so he couldn't see the blush. He was so cute that Francis could almost pinch him.

"Aw, _tellement_ _mignon_. You truly are a little bunny," Francis teased, poking at his cheek.

Arthur almost burst into a spasm in response, managing to push Francis's hand away in the process. "S-stop!" He whined. He collected a breath and then turned back to him. "You'd better stop that you little brat," he threatened.

Francis put a hand on his heart, feigning innocence as they walked. "Me? A brat? You must be mistaken."

There wasn't much touching after that as Francis began to moderate his advances. He understood that Arthur was very sensitive now, and so tried to refrain from being too overwhelming. He was new to this, Francis reminded himself, so Francis had to be gentle in easing him into it.

* * *

Arthur hissed as Francis shoved his way through the threshold to their hotel room, blocking his path until he managed to push past.

"Could you sit down for half a second?" Arthur grumbled as he passed through the doorway, exhausted. Francis had taken him out to lunch after they had visited the house, and if it hadn't been for Francis's persistent inquires about his box he might have had a fun time. Even now Arthur could feel the strain Francis was putting on his nerves. Sometimes, Francis truly acted like a child.

At least they had made it to the apartment, despite Francis's uncanny ability to debilitate Arthur almost completely with just a few well-placed remarks and gestures (like blocking his path, the dolt). Apparently, unlike Arthur, he was in an extremely merry mood.

"Hm. I don't feel like sitting right now," Francis replied, turning back to Arthur as he smiled. "I'm just shaking with excitement about the box. You'll tell me what's in it now, no? I've waited just like you asked me to." As though that excused his annoying behavior.

He was watching Arthur very closely, especially when he placed the box on a table and dusted the top. Arthur knew that Francis was becoming impatient, more than likely establishing a growing hatred for the box with hidden secrets.

"Personal things are in this box Francis, things that I don't want to share," Arthur stated firmly, "even with you."

"Well. If you don't want to share, then I'll just take the liberty of forcing you to," Francis retorted, advancing on the box quickly enough to force Arthur to yank it away. He barely managed to do so, Francis within such close range that he had to take a step back.

"Really?" Francis stated, stilling with his hands on his hips, casting a pout towards him. "I'm not competing with a box for your attention am I? Because that would be pathetic, Arthur. Show me already!"

Arthur paused with the box lowered just below his neck, only sparing a second to think about it. "No," he decided remorselessly. He ought to keep at least some part of his belongings to himself. There was no need to share everything, and an hour of hearing a Frenchman complaining wasn't going to change his decision.

However, Francis didn't look like he was willing to get off Arthur's case just yet. "Is what in there really so important to you that you wouldn't trust me to even take a glance at it? And you stole it from poor Mrs. Jones. I should have reported you on the spot. If only I had known how deceitful you could be," he persisted to whine, the comments nothing new to Arthur after spending lunch listening to similar ones.

Now he was getting annoying. Arthur managed to stifle a complaint about the stealing for a more appropriate retort (although it came at the loss of some of his very valuable pride). "But it's the only thing I have left from my past," he defended weakly, glaring his eyes at the Frog.

"What about the house, Arthur?" Francis retorted, crossing his arms. "What about our trust? I just want to know. You don't have to be so secretive!"

"I'm not being-" Arthur broke off, forcing himself to stop before he lied. He watched Francis for a moment, looking at the pleading- and impatient- look in his eyes. Was this really worth arguing about? Maybe it was time that he show a bit of his gratitude by allowing Francis some insight into his past... but only a little bit. He didn't want the Frog thinking that he was doing this out of an actual want to. "...Fine. If you want to see so badly, then go ahead, look."

He placed the box on the table between them, and for a moment Francis's eyes panned to it. He smiled pleasantly at Arthur, then walked towards the box and proceeded to open it. Arthur extremely hoped that he wasn't making a mistake.

"Nice of you to finally let me have my way," Francis mused as he rifled through Arthur's old documents.

Grumpy, Arthur seated himself in a chair nearby and watched. What had he been so bloody worried about? It was just a useless (but not really) old box with nothing but (important) crumbling papers in it.

He was secretly proud of himself for managing to resolve his argument with Francis and finally relenting (and this was the first time, in fact, that Arthur had given up first!). However, he was still uncomfortable. Something about seeing his old life laid out like this in a pile of old papers disturbed him. And how could it not? The feeling of knowing that he had a past life was indescribable, although it could closely be affiliated with the word "unnerving."

"Arthur?" Francis inquired.

Arthur raised his eyes to see Francis holding up a paper about ready to turn to dust. "What?"

"You kept your birth certificate?" Francis asked with a grin.

"Don't judge! The 1800's was not a very safe age you know," Arthur defended. "I personally think my decision was a wise one," he mumbled afterwards.

He heard Francis scoff as he continued to look through the box's contents. "Now I can understand why you might have wanted to take this, even though it's virtually useless now," he noted, apparently so deeply intrigued that he was dropping conversation for the box instead.

Arthur struggled to hide his surprise. He had expected criticism, not empathy. He silently curled his lips and nodded his head, politely allowing Francis to continue to meander through his personal information.

"You know you're very fortunate," he grumbled. "Not just anybody gets to rifle through my old things everyday."

"Oh? Are you calling me lucky then?" Francis queried with an eyebrow raise, slowly beginning to fold Arthur's old documents back into their places.

"Naturally, so don't spoil the privilege," he scolded in return.

Francis snorted as he closed the top on the box. "Honestly, I'm flattered that you trust me enough to share your old, decrepit belongings with me." A natural Francis response, Arthur thought.

"Oh joy, it's always so convenient when you read my thoughts without me having to say them," Arthur sarcastically replied, catching the grin on Francis's lips.

"And with that I offer whatever you wish for dinner. It's not every day I actually hear something worth listening past those lips of yours," he mocked good-naturedly.

* * *

Arthur relaxed himself against his seat as he watched Francis take their empty plates to the sink. They had just finished dinner and Arthur was exhausted; somehow, he and Francis always managed to make one day feel like several.

Arthur's eyes were getting droopy and his hand was slipping against his cheek as he attempted to maintain a still posture in his chair.

Feeling a finger poke his cheek, he jerked back, eyes shooting open.

"Good evening Princess," Francis teased with a grin, his face obscuring half Arthur's vision.

Arthur's face heated with embarrassment and he slapped Francis's hand away as he prepared to stand. "Get those fingers out of my face," he grumbled. "I'm taking the bed," he quietly included afterwards, deciding that it was better to tell Francis now that he was taking it.

"What? You're not going to share with me?" Francis asked. Arthur turned, catching sight of a smile and batted eyelashes.

They weren't _that_ close. Their relationship was only a day old (because their month-old friend relationship obviously didn't apply to this)! "No," Arthur snapped.

Francis returned a fake pout. "But..."

"Don't even try it with me. I'm tired." He slipped through the doorway afterwards, placing his warm palms against his face. He was _not_ a princess.

* * *

 **A/N: Yayyy another chapter up! I hope you guys like it~**


	11. Closer

A nightmare woke Francis late at night, reminiscent of his recent scrape with death.

At first, he wasn't sure whether he should try to fall back asleep or remain awake. The nightmare, with glimpses of fading ash and bright streaks of red in his vision, convinced him that the best thing to do would be to tell Arthur (because _surely_ Arthur would be understanding at three in the morning and not embarrassed because he was wearing pajamas instead of normal clothing-but then there was no telling with him).

He traversed through the apartment in the dark, swift but quiet as he entered the master bedroom, his shadow bending around the corner and into the intimate space of his room.

He saw Arthur's half-blanketed shape and, once he reached the nightstand, was close enough to reach out and touch Arthur's strikingly angelic face (if he wanted to, that was, and he surely didn't). The brit was curled up like a baby, an open palm resting beside his head and the other arm bent behind it to cover his forehead. His knees were brought halfway against his chest and a blanket, twisted between Arthur's legs, covered his lower body. Arthur's lashes brushed against his soft skin, his disheveled hair a halo of gentle, faded yellow in the dark.

He looked adorable and it was almost painful to wake him.

Almost.

However, Francis managed to find it in himself to wake Arthur and clicked on the bedside lamp, watching as Arthur turned away, an arm reaching to cover his eyes with his blanket.

Francis whispered a gentle apology to Arthur, explaining that he couldn't sleep because he had had a nightmare. They spoke in hushed tones, Arthur muttering in a grumpy mood _what is it?_ and Francis, spouting off a gentle and hurried explanation, insisting that _this is better than just sitting in the dark sleepless, isn't it?_

At some point, Arthur reached for his blanket and yanked it back, conceding. He squirmed onto his half of the bed, giving Francis his own half to sleep on, already turning away in disinterest.

Francis, genuinely flattered by the offer, lied himself down and shuffled to make himself comfortable.

The yellow pool of light suspended over the bed vanished and, once again, shadows bathed the room in darkness. Arthur said nothing, only his soft breaths a sign that he was there.

"Goodnight Arthur," Francis whispered softly as he turned on his side.

"Goodnight," Arthur mumbled back just as delicately, not an iota of malice ingrained in his beautiful voice.

* * *

Francis could hear Arthur making soft huffs and grunts underneath his breath as they waited for Margaret to answer the door. Apparently, he was still too exhausted to have a proper lighthearted mood (and it probably hadn't helped that Francis had woken him up several times in the middle of the night due to his burns). At least Arthur had been complacent towards Francis's request to room with him, much to his surprise. In fact, the Brit hadn't mentioned it once since the occurrence.

" _Lapin grincheux_ ," Francis managed to whisper directly before Margaret opened the door to greet them.

Arthur promptly amputated the sentence he was forming in response to Francis's (what he probably thought to be) snide comment, instead transforming it into a greeting.

"Don't you think it's a splendid morning?" He greeted, doing impressive work to conceal the crack in his voice that was due to the changing pitch (the higher pitch he had intended to use for Francis had collided slightly with the bright one he greeted Margaret with).

"Yes I do. I only hope it doesn't rain," Margaret tenderly replied. "Please, come in," she supplied, stepping back so they could enter.

Trying his hardest not to grin ear-to-ear, Francis passed through the threshold first, casting a satisfactory glance at Arthur who, at that exact moment, looked ready to return to bed.

The two seated themselves on the couch, Arthur distancing himself. Francis wasn't too disappointed—Eyebrows _did_ have trouble sleeping last night and, given that it was partially Francis's fault, he ought to make things a little easier on Arthur (although actually doing so proved to be quite the challenge).

Margaret seated herself in the armchair across from them. Considering that the chair commanded half the space, she looked small and delicate in it, like an old toy (both in literal and figurative sense) out of place.

"I've the money for the transaction," Francis informed, shuffling through the soft cotton of his coat so he could find the wad of cash he had procured early that morning. Arthur had been intent on not going to the bank to fetch the money with Francis, so he had gone alone, Francis more than gleeful when he hadn't been robbed in the process.

"I have the paperwork ready for you to sign," Margaret stated, bestowing the papers upon Francis, who was more than eager to take and read over them. He extended the paper so Arthur could take a glance as well, but just like yesterday he was out of it. It surprised him that the majority of the information listed on it wouldn't take long at all to fill out but it would still take a lot of reading to understand what payments he would be accountable for as the buyer, what he would be responsible for and what the seller would be, the form of payment, etc. Francis wasn't sure whether he was happy he was buying the house or very overwhelmed—hell, why not both?

Only partially understanding what the contract in front of him entailed, Francis filled it out and then signed it, returning it to Margaret when he was finished.

"Is that all then?" Francis inquired as he watched Margaret return the papers to her bag.

"I will get a copy of the papers for you and send them to this address," she stated.

"Perhaps we should go to the bank together so that I will be there if my signature is required," Francis suggested with a small smile.

Margaret nodded her head in agreement, stating to Francis that he should hold onto his money so they could take care of it at the bank. As she spoke, Francis cast a curious glance towards Arthur, attempting to gauge how he felt about their predicament. However, Francis perceived that Arthur wasn't even listening, his head cocked to the side as he cast a glance towards a nearby window.

Really, if Arthur wasn't going to pay attention he could at least do so discreetly.

"What do you think, Arthur? Feel like tagging along?" Francis inquired to him as soon as Margaret was finished speaking.

Arthur's eyes landed on Francis and he nodded his head, apparently focused enough to hear what they were saying. "Of course," he stated.

* * *

Arthur heard Francis's grumblings as he walked around to seat himself in the passenger seat, peering at the Frog only to find that he was watching him in return.

"What is it?" Arthur asked guardedly, taken aback by Francis's almost glaring eyes.

"I should be asking you the same thing, Arthur!" He exclaimed. "You were completely out of it, cheri. I thought you were excited about this, but instead I find you staring out the window like you wanted no business with it. Is everything all right?"

Arthur appreciated the frankness in Francis's voice and the way he looked at him with such imploring eyes; the two paired together almost pushed Arthur to defeat. He almost relented and admitted to Francis that he had been thinking about Alfred, but managed to stop himself. It wasn't that Arthur thought Francis would be upset or jealous, but because he was trying his hardest not to allow his thoughts about Heaven to resurface. If he told Francis what he was thinking, Francis would probably get that perturbed look on his face that he assumed every time Arthur tried to bring up the subject of his death. On the other hand, if Francis were actually open to discussing Arthur's past in Heaven, it would only sadden him.

"It's nothing, really... Just thinking about the past," Arthur mumbled, unable to bring himself to full deceit.

Francis arched an eyebrow but his voice remained sealed as he focused on driving. Francis had told Arthur before that he was not very familiar with London, something he had told Margaret before they set out, thus Margaret was leading them to the bank with Francis's car tailing behind. Arthur only hoped that they didn't get lost.

He placed a hand against his cheek and stared out the window. He was too lost in thinking about Francis's near-death experience and his own death to focus on anything that was happening in the present. He remembered last night, when Francis explained to him that he was having nightmares. He remembered his fever and the way he had panicked in the water fountain, then grimaced slightly when he realized that he still hadn't found out what had caused him to act that way. Then Arthur remembered that he wasn't meant to be thinking about those things and turned his eyes away from the window, focusing them on Francis instead.

"I-I think we should talk," Arthur told him as he drove, earning him a strangely considerate glance from Francis.

"Okay, then talk," he responded.

"I don't mean right now, you git!" Arthur exclaimed.

Francis sighed as the car came to a stop. "Then we can talk about whatever you want to later. Right now we have to square out this house purchasing business."

Arthur followed him into the bank, stirred by the strange atmosphere he entered. He had never seen such a strange place before and couldn't wrap his mind around it. Francis, ever the perceptive git he was, spent his time quietly explaining to Arthur the different elements of a bank, including bank tellers, checks, and vaults to protect the money from being stolen. Arthur couldn't say that he was impressed or even had an interest in such things, although the concept of it was still fascinating (and he did enjoy the professional setting).

He sat beside Francis and Margaret when they were taken to an office of sorts to discuss purchasing the house. Francis muttered to him to pay the most attention Arthur could and he was surprised by how capably he followed the discussion, even though he knew he couldn't understand half the things they said.

Eventually, Francis signed his name on a document agreeing to take over ownership of the house. Arthur put down his signature as well, stating that he would be responsible for payment of the house if Francis did not have the funds to manage paying for the house himself. (To Arthur, it didn't bother him that he might be responsible for paying for the house if Francis failed to, especially since he couldn't imagine caring whether he amassed debt or not).

"Congratulations," the banker stated as she handed over their papers, "you now own a house."

Arthur released a smile as he accepted the papers, glancing at Francis to find that his shoulders had relaxed from a tense hold and that his smile was also of glee and relief. They left the bank together, both waving good-bye to Margaret as she walked towards her car.

"How does it feel to have your house back, _mon ami_?" Francis queried, lightly squeezing Arthur's hand as they treaded down the bank's stairs and towards his car. The winter air stirred the papers in Arthur's hand but he didn't let the wind take them. He'd never let the wind have them.

"It feels wonderful. Thank you so much Francis. Even if we can't build the house back up right away, I still feel that I've reclaimed a part of myself by having my house back," he replied, releasing Francis's frosty fingers from his hold as they approached his car. He had been waiting for this chance to reconnect with his past and, finally, he had gotten what he wanted. Even if the step was small, buying the house opened all sorts of doors for him.

"I'm just so glad that that's over with! Too bad it will no longer be a question whether I will be in debt the rest of my life or not," Francis joked as he walked around to the driver's side of the car and got in.

"Don't say such things, Francis!" Arthur scolded as he seated himself, closing his door and feeling the cold blow away due to the gesture.

"What? It's true," Francis replied with a huff. He turned the keys on in his car, the engine drumming back to life and with it the heater. Arthur immediately stretched his fingers out to thaw them from their cold.

"Arthur," Francis began as Arthur leaned back in his seat, catching his attention. "I believe you were going to tell me something before we got out of the car?" He inquired.

Oh, blast it. Was this a good time to tell him, or should he wait? Arthur lowered his thawing fingers as he deliberated. He wanted to tell Francis, but not if it meant the git would either be unhappy and turn the topic away or become too engrossed that he might drag Arthur back into memories that he didn't want to remember. What Arthur needed was time to decide just what he was going to tell Francis and how much. With that, the decision came easily to him, and he stared Francis directly in the eyes when he said, "I will tell you tonight."

Francis, who was perhaps accustomed to the way Arthur kept his secrets and told them, nodded his head in understanding. "Then how'd you like to spend the rest of the day, _mon amour_?"

"Cleaning the house, of course. How else?" Arthur retorted with a smile.

* * *

The rest of the day breezed past after Francis drove them back to their house. They had started cleaning, beginning with the basement (since Arthur very boldly told Francis that he ought to decide what to clean first). Arthur occupied himself mostly with cleaning out the dusty boxes whilst Francis gingerly unstacked them, attempting to refrain from peering at the contents. Arthur had wanted to complain that he wasn't helping enough but couldn't bring himself to force Francis to look into the boxes with him (after all, there were many strange things stored away in the basement, including old dolls and strange clothing that Arthur didn't think Francis would be happy seeing).

They were still there even after the sun had long drifted from their sight. Arthur insisted on staying. He wanted to clean out the basement quickly and the rest of the house too because he knew the quicker he did that the sooner he would have the chance to move back in—and oh how he wanted that.

He allowed Francis to tear him away when dinner time came around. He ought not to keep Francis chained here like he was some poor prisoner, after all.

"Ah. I feel a terrible case of the allergies creeping up on me," Arthur commented from his seat at the kitchen table, watching as Francis prepared a very modest dinner: spaghetti. He had never had it before.

"Of course you would get allergies!" Francis reprimanded. "You can't sit on the floor of a basement for five straight hours, rifling through a bunch of old boxes and expect to come out of that without encountering a fair number of dust bunnies. Although sometimes I couldn't tell you apart from them." Arthur crinkled his nose when Francis peered behind his shoulder to gauge his reaction to his joking.

"Not to disappoint, but I am sentient whereas they are not. Also, there is a difference between size and color, Francis. Perhaps you were going blind?" He sneered at the haunted look in Francis's eyes.

"Pfft, whatever. Anyways, le spaghetti is almost done~" He hummed, turning his back towards Arthur again.

Arthur placed his hand against his cheek, watching Francis's back with an almost bored glance. His house... could he still remember what it was like? Surely... he remembered some of it, being that he knew that there had been bookshelves and a fireplace, and somewhere a stove as well, although he barely touched it. It had been so long ago that trying to conjure memories from such a long time ago almost made Arthur shutter.

That life was behind him now and each time he tried to look back at it, Arthur could only catch the faintest and most random of glimpses into that old life. When he did search through his memories, he could only think of a few things: the striking flash of his brother's red hair, the demanding presence of his bookshelves way back when they were present in his house, and the faint sound of paper drumming through his ears were some of the few memories he could still look on with complete remembrance. How much was he missing, he wondered?

"...Right, Arthur?" Francis queried.

"What?" Arthur asked, focusing his eyes and realizing that Francis was no longer turned away from him but offering him a plate of spaghetti. "I'm sorry, I was thinking. What were you saying?" He took the plate from Francis's hands as he spoke, feeling a soft heat come to his cheeks.

"Really now, going spacey on me again?" Francis huffed, dropping into the chair across from Arthur with a _creak_.

"It's not my fault that I get caught up sometimes," he defended, raising his fork and taking a stab at his meal. "It's just that I sometimes start thinking about the past and get caught up. Why wouldn't I though, right? With me getting my documents back so recently and then the purchasing of my house... they're just stirring up my mind a tad," he grumbled, his voice trailing to a murmur when he saw the look in Francis's eyes; it was "the curious look," the one where he peered at Arthur with a slightly cocked head and an imploring gaze. Arthur wasn't entirely sure why he was wearing it.

"...Riiight." Francis lowered the hand that had been propped beneath his chin and began to eat dinner.

Arthur sighed softly, mostly with relief than anything else. Had he said too much? Was Francis going to tell him not to think such things? He was betting that the Frog would, given how privy he was to Arthur's thoughts. He was probably already pondering what he was going to say to make Arthur stop rambling about the past (not that he was _really_ rambling).

Arthur finished eating first. He lowered his empty fork and peeked a glimpse at Francis's plate to see if he had finished yet. Since he didn't, Arthur rose from his seat and washed his dish himself, the faucet hissing with water as he twisted it on and began to pour it over the dishes.

"If you wait, I could wash the dishes, _mon ami_. It is my turn, after all," Francis stated from his seat, Arthur catching another sidelong glance from him. What was his problem?

"Er... Are we leaving tomorrow?" He asked suddenly, rolling up his sleeves and then dunking his hands in the sink full of warm water.

"Oui," Francis replied between a bite of spaghetti. "Why, did you want to stay another day? I wouldn't blame you."

"No, I'm not especially set on staying. Just making sure that I had my priorities straight."

Again Arthur's words faded silently and the sound of rushing water replaced small talk. Arthur turned away and focused on scrubbing his plate clean, as well as the silverware he had used. When the Frog finished, Arthur took his dishes too and let them soak in the sink with his, then went to the couch to sit down and have a rest.

Francis joined him, propping his sock-laden feet on the coffee table in front of them. He calmly stretched his arms out on the back of the couch yet regarded Arthur with a decidedly serious look on his face. "What's on your mind?" He asked in an even tone.

Arthur fidgeted in his seat. "Why are you looking at me like that, git? You're acting strange," he stated firmly, his lips twisting into a small, half-grimace.

" _Moi_? _You're_ the one who's been acting strange!" Francis refuted with a loud, obnoxious huff.

Arthur turned in his seat to watch Francis directly, so tempted to argue back. He really wanted to, but he had promised Francis that he would tell him what was bothering him and he said he would do so _tonight_. He couldn't spoil the night so early if he truly wanted to keep his promise (and he really wanted to because this was a rare moment where he could not-by any means-put aside his promise).

Arthur slumped his shoulders and crossed his arms (very much like a child, although he hoped Francis wouldn't mention the striking resemblance). "...Fine, you're right. But what if you are? So what if I've been a little preoccupied with my thoughts lately?" Was it bad of him to be preoccupied with his thoughts? That was just one of the several other unspoken questions that floated through Arthur's mind. There were some questions that ought to be left unsaid.

"In normal circumstances, I don't think it would be a bad thing. _However_ , your thoughts have been 'preoccupying' you all day," Francis responded, air quotes and all.

His chest rose then fell with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Francis. Today was very important to me and I regret not thanking you properly for helping me reach it, but I was too busy thinking about the past. As I've said before, the papers and the house-everything-they've been heavy on my mind recently. I've been so engulfed in living in the present that it's taken me until now to realize how many things I have gone through to get me here. It has made me nostalgic."

Arthur's eyes lowered to his hands, which were resting on his lap, the emerald irises only rising once he was done speaking. Judging by the look on Francis's face, he had been rambling too long, his hand propped against his chin and his face nearly unresponsive. He had a gut feeling that Francis would have reacted something like this. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Francis's brow creased with worry and he lowered his hand again.

In all honesty, Arthur wasn't sure what talking about it would accomplish. He had already gone through the paces earlier that day and told himself that it would only make him more nostalgic, so what was the use? However, this was Francis. He deserved to know more than anyone what Arthur was thinking—Actually, he was the only one Arthur could talk to about it.

"...I might have told you before, but there's this man-his name is Alfred-and he works as the Recorder in Heaven. He writes down each person's life history as they enter Heaven. He also happens to have the same last name as Margaret. Ever since I've learned of her last name, I haven't been able to shake the memory of being in Heaven again. It's been throwing me off." He peered at Francis as he spoke then lowered his eyes again, coyly attempting to avoid his gaze.

Talking to Francis about this sort of sentimental stuff felt alien to Arthur. He almost felt like he had better chance talking to a rock, although perhaps that was because he wasn't very open himself.

"I'm sorry that I can't sympathize with you _amour_ , but I am still grateful that you bothered to tell me. I'm sure that there are a lot of things that you miss but at least you are making new memories too, hm?" Francis noted. "If there's more you want to tell me I have open ears," he offered.

What a surprise—he wasn't joking. Arthur scoffed at the git as a response, grumbling to him that he probably didn't want to hear the ugly, sentimental things he had to tell him.

"Pfft! Of course I do!" Francis argued, waving Arthur to the seat closer to him. "Tell me; I want to know." So Arthur, being very tentative, leaned against Francis's shoulder and explained to him that the fountain scene was one of the recent things that were fresh in his memory. He told Francis how he couldn't stop wondering how he had died. When he turned to watch Francis for a reaction, he could visibly see the traces of sadness on his face; he had downturned eyes and a frown on his lips. So Arthur hadn't been wrong when he had told himself that this would be a topic Francis didn't want to trespass.

"You don't want to talk about it, do you?" He inquired with a small, stiff shift of his shoulders as he glanced away.

"Of course I wouldn't want to talk about it; it's about you _dying_ ," Francis replied with a grimace. "Who wants to think about his boyfriend dying? But it's natural that you would want to know—you _deserve_ to know, and that is why, even if we'll never find the answer, I promise I will help you look for one."

Arthur truly hadn't expected Francis to say something so kind to him. Considering how often they argued, he was expecting a kick in there somewhere, some kind of sting to his words. He felt oddly at ease (although not entirely comfortable, since such a state didn't exist for him) when none came. "What's with me being here anyways? What could I have possibly done bloody wrong to get me put back on this Earth again?" Arthur grumbled, his shoulders slowly locking back into their uncomfortable slumped shape.

Francis scoffed, his warm fingers threading through Arthur's hair. "Whatever the reason, I am _tres content_ that God has blessed me with my own personal troublemaker."

"I am _not_ a _troublemaker_!" Arthur exclaimed, feeling his face heat from anger when Francis began to play with his mussed tresses. He shifted away and found that the gesture had put Francis in his place and had made him keep his hands to himself. "And who ever said that I was yours?" He added with a huff. "Honestly, you could be such a brat..."

"If I'm a brat then you must be a demon," Francis joked with a challenging smirk.

Against all odds, Arthur slept well that night. He ended the day staring at the gray ceiling of their rented hotel, his arms stretched behind his neck. Francis wasn't always such a terrible person, although on the outside his intentions were (only slightly) questionable. He lowered his arms and then turned in bed, concealing his grateful smile behind a pillow. He may not have gotten any answers to his death nor the reason for his presence on earth, but as long as Francis remained with him it really didn't seem as bad. As long as he had that annoying, disgusting Frog, Arthur could be... happy.


	12. There!

Arthur slid lower into his seat and lifted his legs onto the arm of the couch as he tapped the buttons on the remote in his hand, scrolling through the channels to find something suitable to watch. When he found nothing, his arm fell limply against the floor, fingers unraveling and allowing the remote to roll across the carpet.

Francis's voice drifted through his mind as he fought the will to focus on it, watching as the Frog appeared in his line of vision and bent down to pick the remote back up.

"What are you slouching on my couch for? Don't you have some book to read or something to complain about?" Francis's lips were set in a very firm frown as he spoke, switching the TV off.

"I've already gone through every book in this accursed place and I've already criticized everything there is to criticize," Arthur replied lamely, heaving a sigh.

"Maybe you should do some housecleaning?" Francis suggested.

"The apartment is spotless, Francis. Have you _seen_ it?" Arthur snapped, gesturing to the room as proof.

He was frustrated and, unfortunately, Francis was the victim of each of his complaints, whether they were directed towards him or not. Ever since Arthur and Francis had returned from their enlightening visit to London, Arthur felt like a caged bird that had tasted freedom and desired only to feel that joyful feeling again. However, he acknowledged that he couldn't, not without the company of _Francis_. He was beginning to realize that Francis made everything happen because he had no money, no car, not even an identity to make things happen for himself. Like a child groping the folds of his mother's dress, Arthur relied solely on Francis for everything, unable to even take a walk across London because of the high risk that he would get lost. Was he really so pathetic as to have no friends or job and only half a life? Could he really be called a grown man even though he had no grasp of the real world and saw Francis-who was younger as him-as his guardian?

It was because of this helplessness that Arthur wanted to have a job of his own. Surely that would be the best way to prove whether he could overcome his self-imposed deprecation or not. _If I had some purpose greater than cleaning the apartment,_ Arthur thought, _that would be enough to satisfy. Just a real purpose is all I ask for._

"I want to work," Arthur grumbled, raising from his slouched position and pulling his feet back to the floor.

Francis scoffed as he sat down beside him. "How? What will you tell your employers when they ask for identification? Pull out your dusty paperwork? Only bad things could come from doing that, including having the papers you _do have_ crumble to dust. Also, don't forget that you have no educational record whatsoever. If you want to work, you should have a high school degree— _at the least_."

The Frog was too often right nowadays. Why did he have to be right!? Arthur just wanted some proof... "...So I am supposed to do housework for the rest of my life while you slave away to pay off the debt I put you in?" He narrowed his eyes at Francis and felt a small throb of accomplishment when Francis turned his head away (quite quickly, might he add). "I am bloody tired of sitting around like a weight on your shoulders. I cannot allow you to exhaust yourself anymore."

Francis was the bread winner, as Arthur had reminded himself before. He was the one who managed-and earned-the money; he was also the only one who did the cooking, shopping, and the finances, whilst Arthur spent his time reading and complaining. For over a century Arthur had been on literal cloud nine and now, suddenly, he had responsibilities he needed to manage ( _if_ Francis could let up and give him something bigger to do than re-arrange the bookshelf each day).

" _Je suis desolѐe,_ I know that you want to contribute but it would put you at risk—and I don't want that."

Their eyes met and Arthur knew immediately that he had lost to the other's unyielding violet gaze. Francis was very considerate and selfless when addressing issues as serious as these. What had Arthur done to earn someone like him? Why couldn't he have been a spoiled brat who Arthur didn't care about proving wrong? If Francis _were_ more of a spoiled brat, however, Arthur figured that he would have had a terrible time starting out in the world again. In some ways, this was better, even if it hurt to communicate with someone who understood his predicament so well.

He lowered his eyes to the floor and let the muscles in his shoulders relax. "I just wish..." _I could do something productive._

"Hm?" Francis inquired, but Arthur turned his head away. "Never mind."

* * *

Later that day, Arthur shoved the dirty clothing into a hamper and carried it downstairs, grumbling the whole way. Was this really all he was capable of, simple tasks that even the most incompetent of housemaids could do? The apartment was not big and both he and Francis were generally neat men, but taking out the laundry was the only thing that could keep Arthur occupied.

"I'm telling you Francis, I'm tired of being trapped in this place," he hissed when he returned, closing the door behind him.

"Aw, _mon amour pauvre_. The walls are closing in on you, aren't they? I have a splendid idea. How about I take you out on a date tonight? Surely that would help calm your nerves," Francis suggested, placing down the book he had been reading and raising from his place on the couch to approach Arthur.

Hm. Going out together did not sound bad but Arthur had a feeling that a nice, candle light table would not be enough to disperse the anxiety he was feeling deep within. Eh, it would still be enjoyable nonetheless.

"Perhaps you're right. Let's go," he stated, relenting easily. For now, breaking the monotony of their regular routine was (he hoped) enough to keep things off his mind.

Francis fetched his keys and their coats from the couch, then hurried back to Arthur, handing him his coat with a kiss on the cheek. "Let us be off. Was there any place in particular that you'd like to adventure to today?"

Arthur shook his head as he pulled the coat on, hand instinctively reaching to curl his fingers around Francis's. "Wherever you want to go—anywhere is fine with me, as long as it makes you happy."

"Then I know exactly where we're going," Francis replied, "and it's going to be a surprise, so no guessing!"

* * *

"Well? What do you think?" Francis queried as they walked across the green lawn to a dilapidated stone structure standing in the middle.

The sun was setting by the time they reached their destination. Soft shades of pink and yellow bled across the landscape, painting the building in brilliant pastel hues. It stood so tall and looked so beautiful; no doubt it had been a church of sorts-or perhaps a castle-when it stood untarnished.

"It's called the Temple Church," Francis explained as he walked with Arthur to take a closer look. "There's a fee to walk around inside and even if we wanted to see it's too late now to visit. Even so, we can still look at some of the remains if you want," he informed.

Arthur felt a tinge of irony at the thought of having not visited a church since his return to Earth. Wasn't that where churchgoers expected angels to be, singing along with the choir in the pews and blessing people in the house of the Lord? Regret crept upon Arthur quickly and he cast aside any further notions of churches and angels before he was once more swept away by his thoughts.

"Did you go to church as a child?" He asked Francis, whose eyes remained fixated on his as he spoke. It warmed Arthur to see the joy in his irises.

"Maman made me, and as a child church always bored me so I spent most of my time playing games with other kids who sat next to me. I wasn't very avid when it came to things like church and God. It seemed something that was more suited to adults than us little children, oui? All serious business the adults were, always squinting and glaring at us whenever we were having fun in church, but then I suppose that is just the way things are."

"It's comforting to know that not everything changes when one returns to the living from being dead for so long," Arthur replied with an easy smile. He too had felt that same way when he was very, very young but only if he dug deep into his memories, and even then he could not conjure anything vivid to his mind, only collected memories of sitting in the same seat and listening to the same, dull voice each Sunday.

Francis returned the easy smile with one of his own, squeezing Arthur's hand as he replied, saying gently, "It may feel like your two lives are worlds apart, but you will find that they have more in common than you might think. Just because the scenery has changed does not mean that the people have changed too."

Huh. Arthur had never thought of that before. He had always thought of his London as a different one than the one he was living in now. However, Francis's notion reminded him that it was not the place that mattered as much as the people that he met and spoke to in those places. In church it was friends, in the home it was family, and so on.

"Thank you, Francis. Maybe I will be able to adapt a little more easily knowing that not everything is as different as it seems."

Just as Arthur spoke, the sun sunk below the horizon and the dazzling spectacle of color before them was extinguished, a passionate fire relinquishing its time in the sky to a deep azure galaxy and the bright white of stars.

It was days on these that Arthur felt that, just maybe, his life was not as consistent as he expected it to be. He was still learning long after he had thought that he had known enough for the rest of his life. Francis's fingers curled tightly around his and for a brief moment the haunting feeling of uselessness couldn't reach him.

* * *

As the following weeks passed, life resumed a normal beat. Few things changed besides the sight of several boxes on the duo's apartment floor and the pace at which Francis worked.

For those several weeks before moving day, Francis assigned Arthur the job of packing their belongings so they could gradually be taken to their house. Each Saturday, they would bring whatever Arthur had packed with them to the house to store until they were finally ready to move in and unpack everything again. Francis remained occupied at all hours, working extra shifts to compensate for the money he would not be receiving when he quit his job and moved with Arthur while also juggling cooking, bills, and groceries.

Arthur's emotions curdled every time he watched Francis trudge into the apartment and collapse on the couch after waiting tables all day. Francis never complained nor asked Arthur to do anything for him—in fact, he insisted that Arthur relax, even as he took his own shoes off and relaxed the soles of his worn feet. Arthur would pack boxes for hours if it could relieve Francis of the exhaustion that was imposed on him, but knowing that his efforts did nothing practical to Francis's health hit him in a way that he was not sure he could explain. What gave Francis the right to insist that Arthur relax when he was the one who obviously needed the rest and when Arthur wanted to do work that Francis was too tired to do?

All of those pent up emotions melted away when moving day finally came, however. They loaded the last of their belongings into Francis's small car and returned the keys to Francis's apartment to the front desk. Francis had arranged everything. He told so Arthur right before they left. "From this day onward," he had said in a heavily nostalgic tone, "we won't be paying for this apartment any longer."

It was a load off Arthur's mind. He felt that he was one step closer to getting things just the way he wanted them by leaving Francis's apartment for a place of their own. He was becoming more independent—he was sure of it. Arthur wasn't sure _how_ ; he just knew that moving had brought him closer to... whatever it was that he was searching for. An identity, a place on Earth. Solace for his death. His home... it would somehow bring him closer to discovering those things.

There was no asking Arthur whether he was ready or not. Arthur was sure that Francis had cast one glance towards him then known with certainty that this was what he wanted.

* * *

"This is our home now," Francis mumbled as the door swung open and he took a wary step inside, Arthur following confidently behind.

Arthur and Francis had been cleaning the weeks before, but the house still felt dusty to him, the large living room window filtering the sun's rays into beams of strong yellow and casting them against the dull white walls of Arthur's- _their_ -house. The faded couch sat against the wall farthest to the right, near the fireplace.

Arthur placed his box on the floor as Francis sat down on the couch, heaving an exhausted sigh.

"Come sit with me cheri," Francis beckoned.

Arthur turned to watch as he stretched his arms against the back of the couch and gazed at Arthur with a patient, yet all too familiar, look of expectation. Yielding easily, Arthur approached the coach then sat beside him as he soaked in surroundings.

It was so strange to see the place without wallpaper; it felt as though Arthur were grasping for a memory beyond his reach, just another of the many memories that had started to unravel at the seams, so frayed that Arthur had to be gentle with them lest they disappear entirely. He leaned against Francis's shoulder as he looked at the living room. He couldn't bring himself to feel anything akin to nostalgia by looking at the rooms anymore. Maybe it was better that he start off clean, forget what living in the house had been like before and focus only on what he and Francis could do to improve it even more, like buying a new couch and some white curtains to match the bright sunlight shining into their living room.

"What are you thinking?" Francis asked, prying Arthur out of his thoughts.

He lowered his eyes to the floor. "I'm sad that I can no longer remember anything exact about how this place used to be since we rearranged the furniture, but I am happier that we can begin to build new memories in their stead," Arthur replied honestly, pivoting his head to catch Francis's gleeful, yet exhausted, smile.

Arthur knew better than anyone how exhausting these last few weeks had been and the worrying wasn't over yet. There would still be a lot of work to do before the two could live comfortably but Arthur was completely content to keep things in their current condition for a while.

"You should rest," Arthur stated, watching as Francis experienced a brief downturn of the lips. His brows furrowed slightly as he queried, "Why?"

"For weeks you have been working nonstop to make sure that we were ready to move away in time. I want it to finally be my turn to do something for you, since you have put so much effort into getting us here. Let me bring our boxes in. You won't be missing anything if you relaxed for a while."

He could tell that Francis did not like the idea of sitting by and doing nothing while Arthur did something on his own (for once!). Apparently, Francis couldn't keep his nose out of anything; Arthur had been thinking that he was capable of such a feat but was apparently wrong. Was it really possible that Francis would be unable to relinquish this one simple task? Couldn't Francis let him have this one bit of independence?

Francis watched Arthur with a steady gaze until he finally said, "Maybe you are right for once, mon cheri. I will stay right here and take a small nap. You may wake me when you have finished bringing all the boxes in." He wiggled awkwardly against the couch until he was leaned comfortably against the cushions of the couch. With one shoe, Francis pulled the other off and so on until he had taken the socks off as well. Now barefoot, he closed his eyes and resumed a sleeping pose, ignoring Arthur so that he might do the assigned task himself.

Arthur spent a good hour carrying boxes in and arranging them on the living room floor. Francis did not stir once, even when Arthur accidentally dropped a box on the floor, resulting in spilled books everywhere. He was sure that Francis would have woken up immediately and scolded him for ruining his beauty sleep, but instead he remained as stiff and lifeless as a rock.

As Arthur carried one of the last boxes into their house, he walked behind the couch and planted a kiss against Francis's upturned forehead. _When will you stop being so ignorant of what's right in front of you?_ Arthur thought, gazing at his peaceful face. _Why can't you see that, eventually, this will not be enough to sate me? Will you be ready when I decide to search for my identity?_

Francis's face remained in the same sleepless stupor, the unspoken thoughts unable to penetrate his stupor. However, Arthur knew that the words would eventually be spoken loud enough to be heard.

* * *

"Francis, where did you put Sherlock?" Arthur inquired, gazing at the half-filled shelf of books in front of him. Turning his head to look behind his shoulder at Francis, who was working in the kitchen, Arthur spoke the question loudly enough to be heard from upstairs.

"Hm? They weren't in the box you unpacked?" Francis retorted, not lifting his head to read the disgust that had developed on Arthur's face.

Unpacking had begun. It was going quicker than Arthur had anticipated, although it was also messier than he had expected. The first boxes to be cracked open had been their clothing, hygienic supplies, and bedding. Next had been Francis's cooking supplies, ranging from silverware to cloisters and spatulas. Francis was currently thoroughly happy about having the chance to organize everything in the kitchen, investing all his attention into arranging things just the way he wanted them. Arthur, however, was not as gleeful about being the one to organize their bookshelves. Everything had to be a certain way. The romance novels and the mysteries that Arthur read were not allowed to be mixed. It would have been nice to organize the books chronologically, and by genre, but it would take too much time. Currently it was just a challenge to find where all of Arthur's books had gone!

"Obviously you are of no help in this department. I will look for the box myself." Arthur turned on his heels to march towards the closest box, searching through its contents for his beloved volumes.

"Actually, mon amour, it is about lunch time right now. What about a break? I have a feeling that eating a good sandwich or two is just what you need to build up your patience." Francis closed the silverware drawer with a shuffle of silver then gestured Arthur towards the kitchen.

"I will not be at peace until I know where Doyle's novels have gone," Arthur replied. "I don't expect _you_ , of all people, to understand how imperative it is that I find out where they went."

He heard Francis scoffing as he approached the couch; however, he never sat down. "Oh my, are you singling me out as a hater of books? If they mean so much to you, then they are important to me as well." He began to look through boxes, kneeling on the floor to shuffle through the menagerie of things they had packed together.

Francis fell silent as he focused on searching through their belongings, no words exchanged between them as Arthur, too, looked through boxes. Gradually, Arthur couldn't stand the silence that Francis contributed to. Maybe he could cast one glance at the Frog just to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep whilst searching for his books. His fingers brushed against the throw pillows they had brought as his eyes darted briefly to Francis. Then, with a sigh, Arthur pressed his hands into the cottoned furnishing as he watched Francis shuffle through his belongings.

"Francis," he called, and Francis's head rose immediately, piqued by Arthur's voice.

"Hm?"

"Ah, it's..." What could he say? "I... just wanted to say your name."

Francis laughed in response, the gentle lilt of it heating Arthur's cheeks with surprise. Francis's laughter didn't feel real; it felt more like a small, smiling tinkle of joy that made Arthur's heart glow with warmth. "You are so strange, mon amour; sometimes so much so that I wonder if you're truly human," he commented, shaking his head as he turned back towards his box sorting.

"Oh really? Well, at least I know how to sort things into boxes, whereas you just seem to shove as much of our belongings as you can into a single box, regardless of whether the things fit together or not."

He expected Francis to resume light banter with him but instead he only replied by laughing more loudly. He felt his posture stiffen. Was he being _mocked_? "I take back what I said," Francis mused, his voice still teasing from the lighthearted laughing he had been doing. "You are definitely human," He confirmed, Arthur feeling his chest contract with a gentle sigh by the sounds of Francis's spoken words. The last thing he wanted was to be considered as non-human. Perhaps Francis had only been joking but Arthur felt as though his identity had been in peril simply by the suggestion of not being human. How foolish of him!

But... "How can you tell?"

He was surprised that he had asked, and by the look on Francis's face he was as well. Arthur met Francis's velvet eyes, hoping that his face was not as easily readable as he had once been told it was. Francis cocked his head slightly to the side and pulled a loose strand of his curly locks behind his ear. In an annoying way, none of Francis's gestures felt feminine to Arthur, even the most delicate, intimate movements. Did Francis see Arthur the same way?

"You have emotions like a human, oui? You feel and talk and act like a human, don't you?"

"But there is no way that I could be human. I have died before, Francis; we both know so. So then what am I? Am I an angel or am I human?"

"I just said that you were human, didn't I?" Francis retorted, his head leaned over in interest. "And even if you weren't human, if you were some grotesque monster, I do not know whether I could bring myself to stop loving you."

Arthur felt his heart stir but remained resilient. "Do not dodge the question, Francis. I need to know whether I am truly human or not. If you love me enough, you will tell me which you think I am." He held onto Francis's gaze until he relented and turned away. Was Francis's body language prominent enough to say what his mouth didn't have the guts to?

Francis exhaled, then crawled across the carpeted floor, claiming a spot next to Arthur. He reached out and cupped Arthur's heated cheeks with his smooth, warm, delicate fingers, the palms aligned with Arthur's jawbone. "I have already told you my answer, but I will say it again: you are human. Do you think that angels ever feel sorrow, like the kind that you are feeling now? Anyways, angels live in Heaven but since you are on Earth now you must be human, oui? How many reasons do you need before you are satisfied?"

Arthur reached up and cupped Francis's hands between his fingers. He held the hands against his face with his eyes closed for a brief moment, then mumbled weakly, "You make me sound so stubborn."

"That is because you are stubborn, mon amour, although that is not always a bad thing."

Francis wiped invisible tears from the edges of Arthur's eyes then rose to his feet, Arthur briefly holding the hands close to his face before they were ripped from his grip. Eh, he wasn't that sentimental over things like touching anyways.

"I think that we have been on this dirty floor long enough. What do you say to an early lunch?" Francis extended his hand to Arthur as he spoke and Arthur grabbed onto the hand with a grateful smile.

"I think that that's a wonderful idea." He could not restrain himself from casting Francis a gleeful smile when he thought of feeling those warm palms against his face again.

* * *

One more week passed. Arthur and Francis were so occupied with cleaning and unpacking that they almost lost touch of everything else, including dates and work. Eventually, however, reality crept back into their lives. As books were arranged on the shelves, clothes were folded and put away, beds were made, and furniture was purchased, the house went further and further from their minds, until eventually there were no more boxes to unpack and the mind was set free to think about bigger, more important things than unpacking.

Arthur had tried to make himself scarce around the house once the unpacking was finished. He spent most of the time in the basement and attic, cleaning out the boxes there to make room for things that would eventually end up in those dark corners in future years. In actuality, Arthur knew exactly why he was in the basement and attic so often: he was avoiding Francis. It may sound harsh, but Arthur was only avoiding him to keep from hurting him in some way, either by saying the wrong words or allowing himself to get carried away by his own piteous emotions. He was tired of being consoled for trivial feelings that held no weight in the real world. Whether he was human or not did not matter, so why had he made such a big deal out of it? He was wasting Francis's time!

Francis caught on quickly, however. Although he was initially too preoccupied with job applications and interviews to wonder where Arthur was spending all his time when he was away but when he returned one day to find that Arthur had been cleaning in the basement, the memory was ingrained in his head, and from then on he always checked the whole house before he proclaimed Arthur missing.

That was when Arthur decided that Francis must have caught on by then. Francis must know that something had been on his mind to make him such a dedicated hermit when he had a garden to be working on or a neighborhood to explore.

He had decided the day and thought of exactly what he wanted to tell Francis when he came home. It was a foolproof plan—at least to Arthur. He figured that it would go badly even if he didn't rehearse what and how he was going to say something to Francis but supposed that it was at least good that he was going to talk to Francis with a defense already lined up if he began to object.

Arthur lay down and read until the door opened and Francis entered, his voice already assaulting his ears.

"Mon amour, you won't believe it!" He exclaimed.

"Really? I was going to say the same thing," Arthur replied as he adjusted himself on the couch, raising to a full sitting position.

Francis closed the door then strode to the couch, taking a seat beside Arthur. His smile and the way he moved so fluidly and with such energy was enough indication that he was overjoyed about something. Arthur despised wishing that it weren't so.

"You go first, mon amour. What good news do you have to share?" Francis inquired, hunching in his seat so that he could cup his chin in his hands.

"I never said that it was _good_ ," Arthur retorted, his eyes dancing across the room before he even ended the sentence.

His eyes settled on the nearest bookshelf as he heard Francis's answer. "...What do you mean? Did something bad happen while I was away?"

"It's not something that's happened only a few hours ago, Francis. It's something I've been thinking about for several weeks," Arthur replied, curling his lips in mild regret as he kept his eyes planted on the novels he had put on that bookshelf.

"Thinking about? What do you... I..." Francis's voice gradually faded until, wordless, he fell into a silence beside Arthur.

"I was thinking about the promise you made to me when you told me that you would help me find an answer to my death. I don't know how, but I have a feeling that telling other people about my predicament would help me get closer to those answers. I want to ask the government if perhaps they'd look at my old paperwork and—"

"No, Arthur!" Francis exclaimed, slicing through Arthur's words with a firm voice. "I absolutely can't let you tell others about this. I mean... Haven't we spoken about this before? What if something were to happen to you, like having you put away in an insane asylum or jail? Did you ever think about whether they would even stop to consider your explanation before you got halfway through it? It wouldn't sound plausible to them, and, even if it did, what makes you think that the government has records dating back to the mid-1800's?"

Francis's voice was laced with a desperation that Arthur had not expected to hear. He couldn't understand why it made him so upset to hear his voice like that; it was so emotional and imploring, yet firm, as though Francis were still sure to his core that Arthur would reconsider his choice.

However, Arthur was not ready to reconsider. He had been possessed by the desire to tell Francis about his feelings on this subject for so long that there was no going back to change his mind on it now. This was his last-ditch effort to finally get his feelings out before he succumbed to them completely and he was going to take it.

"You're not listening to me, Francis! Can you really see only negative things coming from this? If I tell them, maybe they'll see that I really don't have any paperwork that validates that I'm a citizen. Maybe the government will help me by giving me valid paperwork..."

"Only they wouldn't, mon cher. I'm sorry to say, but the government doesn't make exceptions for anyone. You'd have to go through the normal process just like everyone else, and this time I agree with that. It would be unfair to put you first just because you want your identification. Lots of people want things, but do they always get them? The answer is no."

"This is not about other people, Francis, and you know it. This is about me. While those people were actually born in this time period, I was not. Others have been raised to adjust to things like this," he gestured to their surroundings, "but I know what this place used to look like, and it wasn't like this. I'm not accustomed to living. I haven't lived in over a century, and maybe I'm selfish for complaining about this, but I have a right to my identity just as well as any immigrant does. I might have been given the chance to live in this world, but I can't be happy about it when I barely have the freedom to walk on the sidewalk alone."

He felt his heart throbbing rapidly against his ribcage, as though his emotions were hitting his chest with each beat, attempting to break free. Arthur finally turned back towards Francis to gauge his expression. What Arthur saw was a solemn expression solely indicated by the firm frown on Francis's lips. What did he think about Arthur's outburst? Did he have suspicions that Arthur might speak out like this, or had he thought that Arthur's discomfort was really something as shallow as just wanting to get out more and having some minor identity problems?

"You really think that this is the only thing you can do to get what you want?" He asked in a smaller, more restrained, tone.

"Of course not Francis, but I think that it's the most logical." He saw the angered expression his words left on Francis's face and continued, defensively stating, "This is the quickest and easiest way to get everything I'm trying to accomplish."

"I don't agree with any of that. If you want to get your identity, you could do it the normal way immigrants do..."

"Even though I'm not a normal immigrant? Look Francis, I know that you are worried that something might happen to me if I do this, but I want to for the sake of my future. If I don't go through with this, then I could be stuck like this forever. I don't know why I'm not in Heaven anymore, but it definitely wasn't because God wanted me to be miserable on Earth as well as Heaven."

"Then you are saying that you think it's worth the risk." Francis stated incredulously, his hands downcast to his hands, which lie in his lap, the palms facing upwards with the fingers curled slightly inwards.

"Yes." Arthur reached over and touched Francis's chin, prompting him to look up. "You may have the freedom to drive and work and manage bills all you want, but I don't. I'm risking a sub-par, barely tolerable life for a livable one."

"So _I_ am also worth that risk?" Francis's voice cracked under the pressure of his words and his eyes returned to his lap, too stubborn to return to Arthur's eyes.

"I've thought a long time about this, Francis. The decision wasn't easy, but I decided that I'd do anything to stop living chained down like this—except lose you. That's why I'm trying to talk you into accepting my proposal without doing it anyways. Please say that I can do it!"

"But Arthur," Francis rebutted, his eyes rising again, "You're asking me to give you a potential death sentence! Do you really expect me to say yes? We could always just keep things the way they are, with me working and you staying at home," he suggested meekly, although Arthur had a hunch that neither of them wanted their lifestyles to continue that way.

"I know you are worried, but could the punishment really be so severe? What could I possibly have to lose from talking to the government?"

"You could lose _me_ , Arthur."

Arthur felt himself pause in his tracks. Whatever argument he had set up did not leave his mouth. He stopped and gazed at Francis after the words left his mouth. He felt himself frowning as he watched his grief-stricken boyfriend speak.

"I do not want to be the reason something happened to you, Arthur. I want you to be happy, but I want to be happy, too. If you were taken somewhere for your actions, I wouldn't know what to do with myself..."

If Arthur were in his shoes, he was sure he would have felt (similarly) the same way. He wouldn't want his loved one to be hurt under his protection, knowing that he could have somehow prevented potential future pain and heartache. Even so, there was still an innate part of him that wanted to break free and find itself so that it no longer had to feel the agony of wondering.

"If it's too painful for you to let go, then just don't. You could stay by my side the whole time I'm speaking to them and, if something happens, you could follow. We could go tomorrow, together."

"That sounds like a novel idea, but I just got a job, Arthur." Francis sat with his shoulders hunched as he admitted this to Arthur.

"Really? That's so great!" Arthur exclaimed in an awkwardly joyous way. He shifted on the couch, resting his knees against the cushions. He leaned closer to Francis and pressed a hand against his cheek, watching Francis with an expression that asked, _What now?_

"It _is_ wonderful, mon amour, but it means that I cannot go with you tomorrow. I have agreed to, at least for my training, work during the day."

"Then what are we supposed to do?" Arthur felt his heart plunge.

Francis breathed in deeply and then exhaled. "I will let you take care of the whole business yourself while I'm gone working. If you really do not want to wait until I can have a day off for me to help you, then you must handle it all by yourself. But before you agree to this offer, I want you to know that it also means that you promise not to keep things pent up anymore. I want to know the moment you decide to pull a stunt like this instead of hearing about it weeks later. If you are upset, then you must talk to me. Also, you must not leave regardless of whether things go the way you want them to or not. Do you understand me?"

Wow, so Francis wasn't joking around! Could Arthur really do this? It didn't matter, because he was going to find out.

"I promise not to hurt you Francis," Arthur chimed calmly, leaning over to plant a light kiss on Francis's nose. "All we have is each other, right? Then there is no way that I could willingly allow myself to sever that sort of relationship. I promise to be careful, okay?"

"That is all I ask, mon amour," Francis replied, his smile taut yet somewhat gentle, judging by the light tinkle in his eyes.

Francis was excited, Arthur thought, yet also rightly worried. Even so, he couldn't stave off the excitement of being given his first, full-fledged opportunity to do something completely by himself. In his mind, he resolved not to ruin the opportunity.

"I will not let you down," he stated as Francis lightly shook his head and gestured for him to come closer for a hug. He didn't come off as the sentimental sort, but perhaps Arthur could let one hug slide—one time.


End file.
